Chapter Text
Valjean hardly knew what to think when he woke the next morning. It would have been easy to call it a nightmare, to pretend nothing untoward had happened, but he woke to Javert resting heavily against him, naked and relaxed, and the dried remains of their spend itching on his skin. With a sudden restlessness he yearned to throw Javert off together with the blanket, to return to the pool to wash Javert from his skin, as well as the memory of what should never have come to pass – but to do so was hard when Javert woke, and instead of condemnation, there was only a stunned, helpless disbelief in his eyes, and even harder when Valjean's eyes found the knife that now gleamed innocently in the light of the morning sun where it had come to rest in the middle of the floor.
When he sat up slowly, so did Javert. The blanket slid from their bodies to pool between them; the pale light of the sun now illuminated all that had been hidden by darkness the night before, and Valjean forced himself not to take his eyes away, to take in the lean, hard body with its sparse covering of dark hair, the more copious growth of hair between Javert's legs, the prick that laid nestled there, now soft. All of that he had seen before. All of that was different now that he knew what that skin tasted like, how it felt like to have that prick harden to thrust desperately into his fist, how that harsh mouth could turn to softness against his throat.
There was nothing shy about Javert even in daylight, although he still retained a part of that dazed helplessness. The eyes that were turned on Valjean were wide and dark, as if even now he failed to make sense of his own thoughts and actions, but he did not look away when Valjean met his gaze, and at last reached out to rest a hand that shook only very slightly against Valjean's chest.
His lips parted; for a long moment, he did not speak, and Valjean in turn did not know what to say either. Had this been but a temporary madness? Now, in the light of the sun, it was impossible to look on Javert and not think of the weight of those hands closing around his own, and the iron chains these same hands would deliver him to. That fate was unavoidable. He could hardly bear to think of that future misery, and yet he knew that nothing they had done would change that path that would lead him south to the sea and the galleys once more. And still, despite the terror of what was to come, now it was also hard to look upon Javert and not think of that moment when that mouth had slackened, when that tall body had tensed and arched against him, when Javert had humbled himself and pleaded when Valjean had never demanded his pride.
Was there trust between them now? He did not think that there could ever be. But in that night of madness, he had come to know Javert in a way he had known no other person in his life, and just as he had held Javert's life in his hands two times, now Javert, too, could have taken his life, and had chosen to return it to him. It was not trust – but something had been forged between them, and Javert too, it seemed, was helpless to deny it.
“Will you – will you not ask me to not deliver you to the court?” Javert said at last, and Valjean was almost surprised to hear a small tremor in that voice, though Javert's hand had ceased its trembling once it had spread and molded itself to his skin, warm and certain as his words were not.
Valjean did not know what to say, and finally Javert bit back another despairing laugh and drew back his hand to bury it in his hair instead.
“No, no,” he said when Valjean reached out for him, his eyes still wild, not unlike a spooked horse, “you should not–”
Valjean threaded his fingers through his hair, tried to comb out the tangles the night had left, hardly daring to believe that it was his hand that was doing these things, and Javert bore it for a long moment, chest heaving, before at last he turned away with a sound close to anguish.
“Valjean,” he said, “Valjean–” He fell silent very suddenly, swallowed what further words wanted to escape, and then exhaled shakily. Valjean looked at where his hand now hung in the air, one last strand of dark hair clinging to it, and after a moment, he lowered it, watched the strand slip free, and waited for the sickening dread to return that had always accompanied the thought of being close to Javert.
It did not come. Within him, waiting but for the right moment to strike, he could feel once more the brine of Toulon's sea rise that would salt fields and leech all life from him and leave him with mildew and rot and stagnation. That horror had been burnt into his skin with the passing of second after second, day after day, year after year, with the precise, merciless cruelty of water hollowing out stone. It could not be forgotten, nor could it be left behind, as much as Madeleine had tried. But all the same, now there was the memory too of Javert trembling in the darkness, turning that knife against himself, and Valjean could not shake that memory either, nor the memory of the night he had spent in similar darkness and similar anguish.
“Rest, Javert,” he said at last, deciding that maybe it would be a greater mercy for both of them to keep whatever truce they had managed to arrange. He had no words for what had happened; Javert as well seemed unable to talk, and perhaps an hour apart to gather their thoughts would do them both good. It was too late to deny what had happened. It was also, he hoped, too late for Javert to give in to a moment's madness and do harm to himself, although he nevertheless made certain to take hold of the knife when he finally got up.
Now, for the first time, Javert flushed to see him hold that reminder of what had almost come to pass. “You need not... That is, I will not, I am not... I will not raise it against myself again,” Javert said finally, visibly fighting to stay composed.
Valjean watched him for a long moment, then nodded slowly and placed the knife onto the table. It still seemed more a nightmare than reality, to look at Javert and remember those moments of mindless need, to look at that cruel mouth and remember it sweet and soft and feel himself longing for that metamorphosis to happen again – to feel dread at the thought of the evening, of sharing a blanket with Javert, and not because he feared his touch but because he feared he might desire it...
“I know, Javert,” he said, and then he dressed while Javert watched, both of them silent, both of them flushed at their nakedness, though the discomfort now came from the heat that spread through him at the thought of Javert's eyes on him, and at the way his own eyes were guilty drawn back to that lean, exposed chest, and the sparse trail of dark hair leading downwards.
#
This time, he was so distracted by his thoughts that still circled around the events of the past night in the vain attempt to make sense of what could not be, that he had made it all the way down to where the now calmer water of the river lapped at the path crossing it before he realized that someone was hailing him. There, on the other side of the water that had been a raging torrent just a few days past, stood a man next to a cart, waving a threadbare hat at him.
Valjean froze for a moment. So often had he made this trek to the river, only to be greeted by no sound but that of the water, that for a long moment he could hardly believe what he saw. Then, at last, he shook himself, and slowly raised his hand while in his mind, he could see the river rise once more until it became the sea beneath whose salty waters he would drown at last, and shouted a greeting, and a call for help, and knew that every step now brought him closer to that terrible fate. It was not too late yet, he thought again with despair as the farmer turned away with the promise to send help. He need not tell Javert. When the man returned, he could cross with him, and make it to the next town before sending back help for Javert. Javert had food enough for days, he would survive a few hours' wait; his leg caused him pain, but certainly it could wait a few more hours for a doctor's examination.
Instead, he walked back towards their hut, each step slow and painful, as if he were dragging himself forward through deep mud, and when he entered that dusty room and saw Javert turn towards him with expectation and an almost embarrassed hesitancy that was new, and might have pleased him another day, he made himself walk forward, and stop in front of him, the knife on the table in easy reach of both.
“We will leave at last, Javert,” he said, and pretended not to watch that play of emotion on Javert's face. What good did it do to see that terrible triumph now replaced with confused relief and a nearly painful uncertainty? Never had he seen Javert doubt before – but all the same, there was no doubt in Valjean's heart, who remembered still that one, unbearable moment of Javert's mouth hot and sweet at his throat while he lost himself in a pleasure he had never known before, while at the same time he already felt the shackles close around his hands once more, and the whip tear open the old furrows on his back for hands like Javert's to sow pain.
All of a sudden, he could not bear it any longer, and almost turned to leave and run towards the river, ripping what few, precious hours he could from the hands of fate – but then a low groan of pain escaped Javert when he tried to stand, and Valjean found himself by his side, offering Javert his shoulder to lean on. This, too, returned memories that were uncomfortable, as did the sound of Javert panting through gritted teeth so close to his ear. Javert's hands tightened around his arms almost painfully, and when he turned to meet his eyes, all earlier doubt had disappeared, to be replaced with wild determination.
“You should have let me fall, that first night,” Javert muttered, his expression grim, his jaw clenched, and then he did not speak again, and Valjean helped him towards the river, his soul beating its wings inside him although the cage had already closed around him once more.
#
The ride in the cart was long, and mostly spent in silence. Despite the way the river had receded, it had still taken the help of three strong men as well as a length of rope to cross the river in a small boat that threatened to be carried away by the river's swift current more than once. The men had brought food and a bottle of a cheap, sour red wine as well, and in the cart there was a blanket waiting for them. Valjean had accepted both help and food in silent expectation, his head bowed, awaiting that damning explanation from Javert that would make the men mutter and draw back and eye him with suspicion and hatred – but Javert as well had chosen to remain silent, and when the bread was put into their hands, he accepted it, and when the bottle was opened, he hesitated only for one moment before he took a large gulp. Then Javert leaned back against the side of the cart, and still did not protest when the men spread the blanket over both of them, and Valjean, in his confusion, drank the wine without tasting it, to make up for the words that seemed impossible to find.
The cart rolled slowly. The men conversed in low voices, and Valjean wondered how they must appear – was the cut and the cloth of his attire still fine enough to give them the appearance of two gentlemen who had been surprised by the storm so many days past? Or was the truth written on their faces: that hardened despair of the convict etched in deep lines around his eyes and mouth, the rigid iron of the pitiless hand of the law on Javert's mien?
Worse, he thought, flushing hotly when Javert's knee brushed his beneath the blanket, when his fingers twitched against the rough wood of the cart, wondering whether he would brush against Javert's hand by accident if he moved just a little – would that too not be visible on their faces? The enormity of what they had done seemed large as a mountain to him, looming above them, giving away that sin to the eyes of everyone who looked at them. It had to be obvious that he had touched that mouth with his, that Javert's chest had rested against his own, that in the darkness, they had strained against each other, had found solace in the touch of skin against skin – was it not obvious too in the way he looked at Javert that he had touched that dark hair with a tenderness he had never known before, something unfolding within him like a leaf in spring at that fever-dream carnality that was sin and yet, and yet...?
He could hardly bear to meet Javert's eyes under the curious glances of the men who accompanied the cart back to the inn. He sometimes thought he could feel the heat of Javert's gaze on the skin of his exposed throat and flushed, but when he turned, Javert's head would be bowed, the line of his shoulders tense, and he dared not look at him for more than that short, stolen moment for fear that something in his gaze would give away their shame to the men who had come to their rescue.
To place his hands in Javert's hands and feel those long fingers close the iron around him, he thought he could bear that. Nothing they had done that night had changed the fundamental truth of the world, which said that he, Jean Valjean, the wretch, was a recidivist, and would wear the green blouse, and never hear that word Monsieur again; and that Javert would serve the law, and see him clasped in irons, and never think again of that night when he had hung in the darkness above the abyss, or when his fever-hot body had sought the comfort of Valjean's arms. But to have that night taken from him, something he hardly understood himself save that he knew that it was a sin, and that these men would spit on him for it – he could not bear that thought when the memory of warm skin against his own still made him shudder, and there seemed to him a truth almost as profound as the memory of the Bishop standing in the light of the open doorway in the recollection of how Javert's heart had beat against his own in his sleep.
And then the cart hit a rock in the road and swayed, and suddenly there was Javert's hand on his arm, clutching at him with enough force to bruise, though Javert had gone deathly pale, his entire body curling in on himself at that jarring motion that must have sent fresh pain through his leg when the broken bones ground together. Instinct had made Valjean turn towards him, clasp his shoulder lightly in support and comfort – but there he hesitated, frozen with dread once more by his awareness of the eyes on them, and the fear that his touch was no longer welcome, for what comfort could a convict give a man who served the law?
A soft groan escaped Javert. His brow gleamed with sweat, and he did not move for the longest moment. At last, he raised his tired face and looked at Valjean; the pain had left deep lines around his eyes, drawn his brows together, but Valjean no longer thought that ferocious expression fearsome. If there was still something of the guard dog in Javert, then this was not the face of the furious animal ready to sink its teeth into his arm – at most, he thought, there was tiredness here, and a certain despondency, a sleek hound meant for the hunt who could not decide whether to follow the summoning sound of the hunting horn in the distance, or to stay and lick the hand of its master.
Valjean looked down at Javert thoughtfully, then finally, with great regret, took his hand from Javert's shoulder. There was no more Monsieur le Maire, as Javert had told him. That was the past; already the thought of the title held a strangeness for him, and he thought of that man who had been mayor with wonder, no longer able to believe that not long ago, it had been he who wore the mayor's chain and put his seal on documents.
No. Javert would find no comfort in his touch, and if he did, it would be a lie. And the time for lies had been swept away by the torrent of rain that had nearly taken their lives as well. He had been returned to the truth; it would do no good to waste what hours he had left with idle dreams of things that were impossible.
It was Javert's man who met them on the road, not too far from where the farmer had promised them they would soon rest in an inn for the night. His name was Durand, and he had changed his lame steed for a heavy-boned, spindly mare, and had, so he proclaimed with a strange triumph which at first made little sense to Valjean, searched every inn and every small hamlet near these forests for news of them. He had barely reined in his horse to walk by their side when he produced a letter from his pocket, straightening while that grating smile spread across his face once more, and then bowed to Valjean while he held the letter out to Javert.
“Monsieur le Maire,” he said formally, and Valjean froze, for he had not expected to ever be called by that title again. And now, certainly Javert would set the matter straight; indeed Javert could have Durand produce his handcuffs, and–
Javert reached out to take hold of the letter when it was handed him. Durand was still smiling, and did not even look at Javert as he addressed Valjean. “You will excuse me, Monsieur, I am certain; only, that letter came from the Prefecture, and was deemed to be of the highest importance. Inspector Javert will want to read it as soon as possible.”
The letter had been opened, Valjean could see that, and likewise could he feel Javert go tense beside him as his fingers clenched around the wrinkled paper. Javert remained silent; all Valjean could hear was the rustling of the paper in his hand, and then, at last, the softest sound as Javert exhaled while his fingers folded the letter again. Where his body brushed against Valjean, he could still feel the tension that ran through him.
"Monsieur le Maire," Javert said in an even voice, but when he turned his head, his face was very pale, and his lips tightly pressed together, as though he was desperate to keep himself from giving away some secret. Was that it, Valjean wondered with some helplessness. Would Javert renounce him now, not only reveal him as that convict Jean Valjean to Durand, but also reveal the shame of his sin, cover the strange, breathless wonder of that night beneath insult and incrimination until even to himself, Javert's own pleasure in what had taken place was forgotten, buried so deeply that he would never find it again, not even in the darkest, loneliest nights of future years?
Valjean reached out, prayed that his own hand would not tremble, and when he saw that it did, wrapped it quickly around Javert's hand and the letter contained within. "No, Javert. It can wait until we have arrived. I am certain this is no business for the road," he said, light with relief when Javert's face closed for a moment, and then Javert sank back against the cart's side once more, his hand dropping to rest in his lap with the letter.
Hastily, Valjean pulled back his own hand. Javert's shoulder still pressed against his own, but the touch was no longer reassuring, as it had once been in the valley where the warmth and the scent of Javert's body had by some strange twist of fate come to denote safety and comfort. How strange that now this same body that had slept in his arms, and cried out against him in his sleep, would deliver him back to the cold plank and the lonely, tormented dreams of the prisoner!
"As you say, Monsieur," Javert said, and although his voice was strangely toneless, Valjean did not dare to ask for what the letter might contain, nor why Javert had not yet denounced him to Durand. Perhaps there was a chance to make his escape yet, Valjean thought again, aware that Durand was watching them still, the raw-boned mare plodding along beside them.
Perhaps, if Javert desired to wait until they reached an inn to make his arrest a spectacle worthy of an audience, there was still a chance. It was easy to lose the trail of a man in the valleys of the Ardennes, he told himself, and then he bowed his head, and looked at his hands, and the tiredness that rose within him at the thought of the endless toil he would be delivered to once more was so great that almost, it seemed preferable to hold out his hands in submission and bend his neck for the collar and let Javert do with him what he must.
#
Durand hovered around them, even after they were installed at a table in an inn that seemed clean and prosperous, although they were the only guests in the taproom. The inn-keeper had brought cushions so that Javert's broken leg rested as comfortably as possible on a wooden chair near the fire, and had assured Valjean that he had sent his boy for the doctor in the nearest town, who would certainly arrive within an hour or two. Still Durand stood next to them with a strange expectancy, his lips twitching every now and then as if he was trying to hide a smile, so that Valjean felt his skin crawl in horror at the thought that he must know. And yet, again and again, Durand's gaze came to rest on Javert instead of him. At last Valjean could no longer bear it and straightened, cold sweat running down his back as he reclaimed the mayor's posture and assurance, wrapping himself in that lie right there in front of Javert.
"It has been a trying journey for us. If you could give us some privacy so that the inspector can make his report, Durand..."
"Of course, Monsieur le Maire," Durand said, his smile obsequious and strangely triumphant while Javert paled even more. Then the man bowed and went towards the kitchen, from where soft singing could be heard, and then surprised laughter when Durand entered.
Valjean took a deep breath. Almost he reached out to rest his own hand on Javert's, the hand that was still clenched around the letter – but then Durand returned, and by his side was a girl in a stained apron, holding an empty bucket. Valjean clenched his hand around his armrest instead, careful to keep his eyes off Javert, for he still feared that something in his gaze would give him away. It had to be obvious, the way he could barely look at Javert, and yet not look away from him for long either – and furthermore, after these long days in the wilderness, must not the savagery of his unshaven face and ragged coat give away the convict who had been hidden beneath the varnish of the factory owner and the mayor's chain all these long years?
“Marie will help me water the horses,” Durand said, and the triumph in his eyes increased as he walked past Javert and nodded at the letter in his hand. “Ah, Monsieur le Maire, forgive me. That letter was not the only news I brought. Sister Simplice sent a message as well, asking that in case you were found, you would return as quickly as possible, for that woman in the hospital – you will know of whom I speak, Monsieur – is unlikely to make it through the week.”
Durand left the empty taproom, the girl by his side swinging her bucket as they went, but Valjean did not move, even when the door closed behind them and he and Javert were alone once more. The message had hit him with the suddenness of the storm that had upturned their lives so severely, and now, he could not move, could no longer see the small inn, the pale, drawn face of Javert, or the letter in his hand.
For so many days, life had been reduced to Javert, to food, to warmth. The valley had closed around them, the raging river had severed any connection to the world outside, and for so many days, he had ceased to think about what he had left behind: the good he had tried to build with these hands that belonged to a sinner, with the silver that had come from a saint. Now Montreuil rose before him in his mind once more: the factory where so many of the town's poor found an income, the women with their weary faces and red hands, who would return empty-handed to their hungry children should he be returned to the galleys, the men with their bent backs and bare heads, who might know that same agony of seeing a loved one fade from starvation that had once, so long ago, driven him to reach for a loaf of bread through a window in his great despair. No more would the hospital grow; no more would the school offer knowledge to small heads doomed to a life of misery from before their birth.
All that, Valjean saw, and also he saw Fantine as he had left her, pale as the sheets in her bed in the hospital, and the light that illuminated her face with a radiance like that of the painted church windows in the morning sun whenever she spoke of her daughter, for whom she had sacrificed so much. His despair grew as he imagined her abandoned, dying all alone in the hospital while those who took care of her could not even give her the certainty that the mayor was alive, that he would set things right and provide for her daughter. Ah, what a wretch was he, to worry whether they would have more fish to eat when back in Montreuil, Fantine lay dying, holding fast to that one, mistaken belief that the mayor was a good man, that he would see her child returned to her!
He did not even realize that in his great anguish, he had stood, had taken a first step towards the door – but suddenly Javert's arm was on him, his face a grimace of pain and some other, deeper turmoil. A knife was in his hand once more, and Valjean looked at it without fear, wondering whether Javert had taken it and kept it hidden all this time after he had left him in the morning. Was this what it would come to after all?
The knife was pressed lightly to his chest, and he met Javert's eyes. “You heard him,” Valjean said, and there was a great weariness in his voice. “She is dying. I need to return; I am the only one who can help the child now. Javert, please, you must–”
“Please!” Javert released a bitter laugh and pressed the knife closer. Valjean did not move, even though the tip of the blade threatened to penetrate his stained shirt. “Please, you say, as if – no.” His eyes were wild; tangled strands of his hair that had escaped the queue once more framed his face. “No, it is too late for that. No excuses, no pleading now, no–” He made a choked sound when Valjean moved closer; the tip of the knife slid through the worn fabric of his shirt and pierced his skin at last. Only the panting of Javert's fast breathing could be heard as a small spot of red bloomed on the dirtied shirt.
“Javert. You want me in the galleys; I say to you, I will go, I will not resist, I will not attempt to flee, if you will just let me return the child to Fantine before it is too late! When the child is safe with the Sisters I will go with you, and you may do with me as you like; Javert, I swear to you–”
“You! Swearing to me!” More blood welled up when Javert laughed again, though his hand was trembling. Valjean felt no pain, only the pressure; his thoughts were in too much turmoil at the thought of Fantine dying alone and the child being abandoned to feel the cut, even though a tiny trickle of blood now ran hot down his chest. ”And here you talk of a child, of your charity, of–”
He broke off with a tormented sound, the knife trembling even harder against Valjean's chest. Javert's other hand clenched around the letter he still held. After a moment, he raised it with another despairing laugh and pressed it against Valjean's chest as if in accusation, his eyes still wide and wild as he held Valjean's gaze. “And do you know what that is? A letter from the Prefecture, Monsieur le Maire, wherein my own patron, to whom I owe this position I have held in Montreuil, calls me mad! To accuse my superior, the esteemed Monsieur Madeleine, who was offered the Légion d'honneur, of being a former convict! Only a madman could come up with such an idea! Only,” and now Javert laughed once more, that terrible, rusty sound, “only there is no Monsieur Madeleine, there is only Jean Valjean, and my patron advises me to ask for your forgiveness, Monsieur, and tells me that the true Jean Valjean has been found!”
“Javert...” Valjean could not think of a response to those words, not when there was a madness staring at him from Javert's dazed, dark eyes that he recognized both as despair and as that wild emotion that had swept both of them up in its grasp a night ago like the raging river had swept away the bridge: a Dionysian ecstasy that had no explanation even now, but that set his heart to beat faster with a strange, aching tension when he looked at Javert's parted lips and the way his skin gleamed with perspiration.
“Yes, that wretch has been found, and I am summoned to Arras to testify. What do you say to that, Monsieur Madeleine?”
Now it was Valjean who trembled, although he nevertheless raised his hand to lightly rest it on Javert's hand that was still clutching the knife. “Javert, we both know there is no Valjean in Arras. Valjean is standing before you. Yes, Valjean is in your power at last. But I tell you, Javert, there is a woman who is dying, and a child that needs to be brought to her. I swear to you, once that is done I will go with you to Arras–”
“And do you think me a madman too!” Javert now cried, although there was neither anger nor satisfaction in his voice. “To tell me such a thing, to say that you are Valjean, and expect me to let you go...!”
“Javert, I must go.” Valjean's voice was soft now, but his hand still remained there on top of Javert's hand, the knife still pointing at his own chest. With every breath he took, another droplet of blood escaped the small wound to soak into the fabric of his shirt, but his voice did not shake as he continued, and he felt no pain, only a deep weariness. “I will return to Montreuil, Javert, and send for the child, and if her mother will not live, the Sisters shall care for her. Then I will be yours, I swear this, Javert, but you will not stop me now, not even with your knife.”
Javert snarled, all reason forgotten for a moment as he shook off Valjean's hand and pointed the blade at him again, holding it right there at the sensitive, thin skin of his throat where one night ago, Valjean had felt his lips rest against his fluttering pulse and whisper words of madness. “You will go nowhere, Valjean!”
Valjean held his gaze as he moved forward, forcing Javert to press the blade harder against his throat until at last, the skin broke, and a thin line of red appeared. He did not make a sound; only Javert's heavy breathing filled the room.
“I will go,” he said at last, still ignoring the knife at his throat. “I must go. You see me now for the wretch I am, and you are right. I ask you, Javert, what worth has the life of a sinner? Very little, certainly you will agree there. It is of far less worth than that of an innocent wronged and suffering; of a child abandoned. And so you cannot threaten me. My soul was purchased by a saint; my body you may harm, but it will not change this truth: I will go to see Fantine, Javert, and I will find her child.”
He did not move even when the blade at his throat trembled, and then was pulled back with another choked sound of despair. Within his own chest, his heart was contracting painfully. The thin cut at his throat throbbed with heat, and then he took a first step back, waiting for Javert to call out for Durand, to strike at him with the knife in the madness that had overcome him, and still he could not help but take another step towards the door.
“Valjean,” Javert said at last, and his voice was rough, trembling with an emotion Valjean could not place. That could not be the threat of tears; that gleam in Javert's eyes had to be the gleam of triumph, or rage at his attempted escape.
And then Javert once more turned the blade on himself, pressed the tip that was still red with Valjean's blood to his own chest, and Valjean froze.
“You will not leave this room, Valjean.” Javert pressed the knife harder against his chest, until his shirt, too, was stained by a small speck of red, mingling with the drop of Valjean's blood that had clung to the blade. “Do you hear me? I will not let you leave. You don't care about your own life, you say? Well then, what about this, what about this life you dragged from that broken bridge?”
Valjean trembled. Within him, once more the need to reach Fantine before her death reared up: without him, her death would be lonely; she would know herself forgotten, and her child abandoned, and that knowledge weighed as heavily on him as the memory of the forty-sous piece in his palm. And yet, there before him stood a man with a knife in his hand, with the first drops of blood spilling from the wound, and Valjean, who had known himself followed by this shadow intent on returning him to misery for so long, who had held this life in his hands two times, and slept by his side, could no more take another step towards the door than he could have released Javert's hand when his touch had been all that stood between Javert and death.
His breath came fast. Once more there was the roar of his blood in his ears, loud and angry like the sound of the sea. Again he told himself to flee; instead, after a long moment, he raised his hands, stretched them out towards Javert, palms up, wrists bare and vulnerable and marked by the old, pale scars of his captivity. His hands trembled slightly, but his eyes did not move away from Javert's face when he spoke. "Please, Javert. You are right – I will let you clasp me in cuffs, I will submit to you and let you do as you wish this very moment. Just put away that knife, and swear to me that when we return, you will have someone send for the child and give her into the Sisters' care. I ask no more than that; certainly you must agree that is fair?"
Silence stretched between them. Valjean watched as another drop of blood slowly soaked into the already dirty fabric. Javert's panting was that of a frightened animal. At last, he laughed, though the sound was closer to a sob, and his fingers that held the blade relaxed until it slipped from his grip and fell to the floor. The sound of impact made Valjean flinch, but then Javert's hands were on him, gripping his collar to draw him close.
"No," Javert said, his voice low and full of anguish. "No, of course you will not flee if that means my death. Your own life you will throw away for a woman of the town without a second thought, but my life, yes, my life, the life of the police spy who has watched you for so long with suspicion – my life you will save?"
He laughed again, and his hands that gripped Valjean's collar so tightly shook, and then they tensed, and Valjean felt himself drawn forward until they were so close that he could feel the heat of Javert's breath on his lips, could see his pupils dark and dilated, felt the brush of an escaped strand of hair against his cheek.
"What sinner is this who acts the part of the saint?" Javert asked, and his voice nearly broke with despair. "What... what are you, Jean Valjean, why do you... I do not understand you!”
The words tore free from his throat in an anguished cry; sweat gleamed on his brow; at his throat, his pulse throbbed. His lips parted, his eyes closed, and then Valjean found himself pulled even closer, and he exhaled a shuddering sigh against Javert's lips before that mouth opened beneath his own, and he tasted the heat of Javert's tongue. It almost seemed more bite than kiss; Javert was desperate, and Valjean, who knew that the same hands now clutching at him would deliver him to the chain and the lash soon enough, who knew no name for this heat that spread within him at the broken sob Javert moaned against his lips but that of sin, Valjean slipped his fingers into Javert's hair, cradled that skull in his hands, stroked a thumb against the coarse whiskers and for one moment, tried not to think of the salt and the gulls, but the warmth of a body against his own, the way Javert's breathing had changed when he had put his hand on his cock, and that sweet, unbearable torment of thrusting into the slick grasp of Javert's hand.
When they parted at last, they were both breathing heavily. Javert's lips looked bruised, and almost Valjean leaned forward again to press his mouth to them once more, to feel that softness and that heat and thrust his tongue into that warm, welcoming mouth until he had kissed Javert into silence, until he had kissed the madness out of him, licked the taste of his own saliva from his mouth, drowned himself in Javert's moans.
And yet, he knew that he could not. For the sake of both of them, he could not, and instead he raised a trembling hand to curve it around Javert's neck, smooth his thumb against the flutter of his pulse.
Javert's eyes closed and his lips parted; at first, the only sound that escaped was a choked sigh of despair and great weariness. “Monsieur,” he then said, and Valjean could not breathe for a moment when he heard himself addressed in such a way once more. Javert raised his hand to cover Valjean's with his own trembling fingers; then he took a step back, and gently pulled Valjean's hand down, and Valjean stood before him with his hands held out in surrender once more. With calm concentration, as if there was something sacred and profound about such an act, Javert's long fingers wrapped around his wrists, searched out the shape of the irons, and settled into the deep furrows of his scars.
“I have reported to you what the Prefecture sent me. They call me mad and bide me to apologize. Monsieur, you will understand that I cannot apologize, and I must tell you that my suspicions of you have not been laid to rest by the arrest of this man Champmathieu, who might be innocent of the crimes I suspected you of after all. You will understand, Monsieur, that I will need to write to Paris again, for when I beheld your scars in that valley, my suspicions grew. And yet Monsieur Chabouillet tells me I am wrong, and mad, and so you see that I must present these new proofs of my suspicion to him, and let him decide how I am to act, for to suspect you twice without reason for such a crime would be a grave disrespect of both your office and my superior.”
Valjean looked down at where Javert's hands held his own. With another low sound that could have been frustration as well as despair, Javert's fingers opened ever so slowly, releasing him as he had been released from his irons years ago, and the chains had fallen off, and he had been a free man at last. When he looked up, he found that the look on Javert's face was dazed, as though it was Javert who had been released from years of captivity and did not know how to live in a world that held no walls, no bars, but only the blue sky and green meadows to mark his horizon.
Almost Valjean raised his hand to touch that red, bitten mouth once more, and this thing within him that was sin, and so much more, curled through his veins with a sudden, sharp longing for that simple pallet and the threadbare blanket, and the comfort of warmth during the blackness of night. Instead, he thought of Fantine, and of the child that would live forgotten, abandoned, another life lost to misery and cruelty, and he pressed his hand to Javert's chest instead, where the small spot of red had bloomed on his shirt, where his heart beat with fast, firm thuds beneath warm skin.
He thought of demanding from Javert a promise to not raise the blade against himself again, but then Javert's hand came up, trembling harder now that it covered his hand again. For a moment they stood facing each other, and Valjean felt the steady, quick beat of Javert's heart, and the warmth of his blood.
It was madness, Valjean thought again – at best, it was madness, at worst, it was sin, and yet, what he had felt, what he still felt, was too vast, to strange for such small words. Then Javert drew his hand up, and his mouth settled against the inside of his scarred wrist, his lips soft and hot as a brand so that Valjean made a low, keening sound at this touch that was too gentle not to hurt.
“I need to write the letter, Monsieur,” Javert then said, and released him, but he did not step away, even though his shoulders were tense and his eyes lowered.
Valjean looked at him. He did not think he would see Javert again. He had to hope they would never meet again, for although such a man might trick his conscience once, he did not think that Javert could let him go a second time. His wrists felt heavy and hot, his skin burned where Javert's lips had touched him so gently, and he remembered again the heat and the strange, pleasing roughness of Javert's body against his own.
Before Javert, the last person to touch him with kindness had been the Bishop; before the Bishop, no one had touched him with gentleness since his childhood. Now that he looked at Javert and felt a sickening ache in his heart, he did not think he would know that feeling again until he died.
He turned his head away. He walked towards the door with slow steps. He waited, but there was no shout for Durand. His hand rested against the door; almost he managed to make himself open it without turning back for one last look, but something moved him to turn, and he saw Javert still standing where he had left him, shoulders slumped, eyes empty and despondent. He thought that he should speak, but there were no words for this thing within him.
“Javert,” he said at last, and when Javert's head rose, he felt a shudder run through him to have those eyes fixed on himself again. There were no words he could say. Everything had been said between them. Whatever this was had been a madness, a thing of that valley; now that they had crossed the stream, it needed to be left behind, as they had left behind the pool and the hut and the overgrown garden.
“Javert. I will see you again.” He had not meant to say the words. He did not believe they would. He knew they could not meet again, not ever. But now that melancholy despondency was gone from Javert's face, and there was a new sharpness, a hint of the old glint in his eyes that made Valjean shiver and think of a cat in wait for a mouse, and of the way Javert had thrust against him so wantonly in the darkness of the night. For one long, final moment, he allowed Javert to see the heat that rose on his face before he opened the door and went through, and then closed it behind him, and though there was still no cry, no sound of running feet, he was flushed with this strange warmth that was not quite fear and not quite shame all the way to where a carriage awaited.