Chapter Text
Control, Javert reminded himself. Don't live down to their expectations. You are better than that piece of shit Valjean.
But it was so hard not to lose his temper and denounce the piece of shit right there when Lafitte came in to announce that Jean Valjean was going to be elevated to a series regular. They wanted Valjean to play the fucking mayor. Even though his character had, ironically, started out as an escaped prisoner, and Javert knew stories about Valjean himself that would have made him much less popular with the women who were always fawning all over him, admiring his muscles and blabbing about how handsome he was.
Instead of speaking up, Javert locked himself in his trailer. It didn't matter that he had never complained to the producers no matter what stupid thing his character had been directed to do, never been late, never missed a fucking cue for fuck's sake. They didn't listen to him. Since the news had broken about his drug dealer dad dying in prison, the bosses couldn't see the difference between Javert and the character he played in their little melodrama: the son of a dealer and a whore who never went to college, who had made his living working security before a talent agent admired the way he scowled at her and asked him whether he'd ever thought about being an extra on TV.
Valjean had never gone to college either, but Javert couldn't explain how he knew about all the lies on Valjean's resume without having to talk about those months working as a prison guard, when he'd seriously thought that jumping in the river might be a better idea than continuing. Eventually he'd swallowed his pride, written a letter about everything that was wrong with the system, and quit, even though he didn't know how he'd pay the rent. He'd never had Valjean's talent for tricking people into thinking he was someone better than his birth and making money fall into his hands. Javert had worked his ass off on the one episode of The Forlorn for which they'd brought him in, impressing the producers enough to bring him back for a few scenes here and there, until finally they decided they should have one cop who was a regular antagonist for all the characters in their small-town drama, feared by everybody. All the crap Method actors in the cast continued to treat him as an outcast, pretending they were doing it to stay in character.
A knock on Javert's door interrupted his train of thought. Probably one of the producers coming to explain, so Javert yanked the door open with some approximation of a neutral expression. He treated the producers with the respect their positions deserved even when they treated him like shit. But it was not a producer, it was that bastard Valjean, wearing the phony smile that had made everyone else in the cast fall in love with him instead of realizing what a poser he was. "Monsieur le maire," said Javert sarcastically.
"Inspector," Valjean greeted him with a courteous nod, taking Javert's irony for friendly teasing. "I need help. They just handed me twelve new pages and I don't know who half these characters are, let alone how Madeleine would behave toward them."
"Now that he's the mayor, I'm sure Madeleine would think he was too important for the little people," snapped Javert. "Why ask me?"
"Everyone says that you're the backbone of the show." Valjean gestured to the door, indicating the cast and crew beyond. "One of the writers told me that when he forgets a continuity detail, he calls you. Got time for a crash course? I'll buy lunch."
Javert was not impressed by Valjean's flattery, nor his offer, nor was he taken in by the bullshit friendliness Valjean exuded.
"They call me because they're too lazy or too stoned to keep track of their own damn stories," he snarled, knowing that even though Valjean got under his skin, he was still overreacting. "And because they know I pay attention," he admitted grudgingly.
"I've noticed," Valjean said, then somehow he was inside Javert's trailer and the door had shut behind him. What, what the fuck had he noticed? Valjean waved a sheaf of papers bound with clasps that were probably the new script pages he'd mentioned. "So, lunch?"
"You don't have to bribe me," Javert replied, turning away from Valjean, though there wasn't much space to go in the shitty little trailer.
"You have to eat, I have to eat, and I'd really like help," Valjean said as if he realized he'd won some sort of battle and was already signing victory treaties.
"We can eat right here," said Javert, though he'd meant to say he, he could eat right here, and Valjean could go let one of the top-heavy too-young production assistants buy him lunch, or better yet, be lunch for him.
"I know a great Thai place that delivers," Valjean told him, pulling out his mobile phone.
Javert wanted to snarl that he didn't like Thai food, but he did, and he was hungry anyway and Valjean wasn't going away, not his blindingly white smile nor his perfectly fucking coiffed hair. It was only the thought that Valjean had spent an hour in make-up that morning getting moussed and snipped the same as Javert had and the rumble in his stomach that silenced his protest when Valjean tapped the number in.
"Tell me about Fantine," said Valjean when he'd finished ordering what sounded like enough for the entire cast. Javert wondered whether Valjean intended to go invite some of his fucking admirers once the food arrived. "I can't tell whether she doesn't trust me or that's just her character -- what's the deal, there, anyway? She got fired and it's supposed to be my fault?"
"Your character fired hers for something she didn't do, so she started turning tricks to make ends meet, and now she has AIDS," Javert reiterated crossly. He'd told anyone who would listen that the storyline sounded utterly contrived, but no one had thought the audience would notice.
"She's pissed at me for something that happened on a day I wasn't even on the set," complained Valjean. "It's not like I can call the writers and say, 'Hey, guys, I don't think I'd have had this woman fired without asking her what happened.' And this --" He held up the papers. "-- the new scene, I stop you from arresting her and she tries to kiss me. I think Fantine thinks it's my fault that got written."
"Of course it's your fault. They want some woman in love with you right away, to play up your supposed charm with the ladies."
Ignoring the implied doubt, Valjean grinned at him. "I thought it was to establish my character's heterosexuality, given his past in prison and all. That other guy, what's his name -- Batambois? -- seems to imply that he has his doubts about me, anyway."
Whatever Valjean was fishing for, whatever rumors he might have heard about Javert, Javert sure as hell wasn't going to confirm or deny them. "I'm sure you'll find a way to charm Fantine soon enough," he muttered, trying not to glare and give Valjean any conclusions to draw.
Valjean shot an odd look Javert's way, but he was already moving on, flipping through the shooting pages. "Then there's all this business about the money, blah blah very successful blah blah blah, and then there's a new scene with some guy dying in the hospital -- wow, couldn't they have come up with a better excuse for two pages of me blabbing exposition? And I explain all this stuff about finding religion. It would be so much better if this were a flashback. Even if I wasn't in the scene, but if we saw the priest's face as my character would have seen it. They'll tell me to shut up if I suggest that, right?"
It was exactly what Javert had thought when he'd seen the new pages -- forgetting that they'd cut his part down to two damn scenes this week -- that the writers were planning to have Valjean put the audience to sleep describing his history, instead of cutting the gratuitous scenes with the hookers and showing where Valjean had come from. It might have had to do with the budget, but Javert suspected that the writers hadn't thought it through in sufficient detail to come up with the setting. "They'd tell you to go to hell," he warned, realizing as he said it that unlike anyone else on the lot from the P.A.s to the studio execs, Valjean never swore. Who said wow instead of fuck?
He was about to bring this up when there was a knock signifying either that the food had arrived or that Lafitte was finally coming to explain why they'd made such huge changes affecting Javert's character without a word of warning. He hoped it was the food.
It was. Valjean was handing the signed slip back to the delivery boy before Javert remembered he wasn't going to let him treat.
"Here, let me--" he began, but Valjean was waving him away, handing him a bag while he took two others. "Christ, how much did you order?" Javert gaped, nearly dropping the heavy bag before dragging it into the trailer kitchen.
Valjean had a bag in each hand, hefting them like dumbbells, setting them beside the one Javert had set on the counter. They barely fit together in the confined space, the trailer having been designed for convenience, not luxury. "What? I was hungry. And I haven't been able to have carbs in ages."
Despite not meaning to care or be curious, Javert found himself asking, "Why not?"
Pulling out napkins and plastic forks from the bag, Valjean made a muscle with one arm. "That part I did in The League. I had to be in shape." He laughed and dropped the arm in favor of pulling out plastic bins full of intriguingly arranged noodles. "Really cut."
Leave it to the blowhard to bring that up. It had been a small part, even though it was favorably received. "You didn't look especially fit in --" Javert began before realizing his mistake.
Valjean's eyes widened in delight. "You saw it?" He opened the pad thai, inhaling it before setting it back on the counter beside the steaming dish of satay. "It was a very small part," he said, obviously trying to look modest.
It had been a small part, but the critics, even the English critics, had noticed Valjean. It had probably led to Javert's current dilemma, having to put up with the insufferable asshole, because small parts often led to breakout roles in other projects, like the show that Javert held onto for dear life. Javert started fussing over the food, setting the containers haphazardly on the boxtop sized table, even getting down plates. "It was on TV," he said without looking up, which was the truth, though Javert had seen it in the theater first. "You didn't look that muscle-bound."
"That was the idea," Valjean said, following Javert with two more cardboard containers. "I wanted him to be sleek without looking bulky. Lots and lots of lean protein for months." He swung into one of the chairs, forking up a golden triangle of fried tofu and swallowing it. "Heaven." He'd ordered bottles of soda too, pushing one toward Javert before unscrewing the top from his own and taking a long pull.
Javert realized that he was staring -- fuck, practically drooling -- and turned his attention quickly to the golden triangles in the hope that Valjean would think it was the food, which did smell delicious. He'd never heard of this Siam House Thai place even though Valjean had said it was nearby and they'd delivered quickly; probably the rest of the cast ate there all the time and didn't bother to invite Javert to join them. "S'good," he agreed around a mouthful of tom kha gai. He wondered how Valjean could possibly put in the hours in the gym necessary to keep that body and eat like this -- probably Valjean spent all his spare hours working out, letting the men stare the same as the women.
"So I've found religion, and you don't like me." Javert nearly dropped his spoon before realizing that Valjean had gone back to talking about the fucking show. "Do you really know where I came from, or you just suspect? I can't tell from these pages."
"The writers haven't told me," muttered Javert. They'd been so busy falling all over themselves writing backstory for Valjean, they hadn't bothered to keep the actors whose characters were directly impacted by it in the loop. "But whether or not I have proof is irrelevant. I would treat you as a suspect from the moment you aroused my --" It would have sounded stupid to say suspicions so soon after saying suspect, so Javert paused, wiping his mouth, trying to think of another word.
He paused for too fucking long. "Aroused your…?" asked Valjean, turning a much naughtier smile on him than his character would have permitted himself, holding up a particularly phallic-looking bit of crispy garlic pork.
"Aroused my curiosity," sputtered Javert, not at all happy about either how suggestive that phrase sounded or the way he blushed when he said it. Valjean pushed his tongue into his cheek. "My character would treat yours as if he might be a threat to --"
"Your character's just a little obsessed with me, isn't he?" Valjean sucked one of his own fingers clean for emphasis, making a popping noise as he pulled it out of his mouth. "I'm trying to figure out why he won't just let it go. Whatever I did, it was a long time ago and now I work hard and the town's thriving -- there's even supposedly less crime. You said that to me when we met. So what's with the following me around, watching me?" He pointed a noodle-laden fork at Javert. "I kind of suspect your character secretly has a thing for me."
"You would think that," Javert snapped. "So much for the mayor's supposed humility."
"I meant me, not my character. Otherwise, what's your explanation for his obsession?"
Valjean was about to fork up the last of the golden triangles. "He's obsessed with the law, not with the mayor," Javert told him, blocking Valjean's fork with his own and spearing the fried tofu himself.
"We could --" Valjean began, only to trail off, fork hanging empty between them as he stared into the distance. Javert was about to make a comment about not holding his attention when Valjean snapped back, his eyes alight with some internal mischief. "We could use that." Swallowing the purloined tofu, Javert only had time to look confused before Valjean elaborated. "I mean, I know the writers will never go for it, and neither will the producers, but we could do it." He made a back and forth gesture between them indicating both of them.
"Do what?" Javert asked, unhappy about missing whatever point had become so clear to Valjean.
"Subtext," declared Valjean. "These guys are oozing with it. Why not play that up?" He made an arching gesture with his fork. "We don't need dialogue for that." He looked like he was going to do something obnoxiously manly like punch Javert in the shoulder.
"They are not oozing with anything," Javert spat out, once he realized the awful direction Valjean's thoughts had taken. "They're adversaries. They hate each other. You're afraid of me!"
Valjean stabbed his fork into the noodles with each of Javert's objections. "See? Subtext. The fans go crazy for that stuff." He swallowed his laden bite, waggling his eyebrows once as his tongue flicked out to catch a bit of trailing noodle.
Barely refraining from rolling his eyes while he picked out the biggest piece of broccoli, Javert said, "I haven't been doing this long enough to have fans."
He had the satisfaction of making Valjean blink. "Yes you do. I'm one of them." Valjean said it so disarmingly that Javert looked up, certain he was being mocked. Valjean merely used the moment to transfer the broccoli to his own fork and pop it into his mouth.
"Insincere flattery won't change my mind," Javert growled, angry at himself for wanting to believe it.
Immediately Valjean changed tactics. "It'll be fun. We'll be in on it, the audience will be in on it and rooting for us -- if we do it right -- and the writers will think it was all their idea if the ratings jump."
It was impossible; it would never work. Why then was Javert considering it? He certainly did not want to insinuate subtext, or any other kind of text, with Valjean. "If I agree to this scheme of yours, what will it involve?"
Javert knew by the triumphant expression that Valjean assumed he had won, even though Javert hadn't actually agreed to anything. "Little things at first," he said, warming up to his own idea. "Standing closer, little glances, smiles. The fans will catch on and start tuning in each week just to see what we're up to."
"And the fact that we hate each other?" countered Javert.
For a moment Valjean looked as though Javert had kicked him. "Oh, you mean our characters?" he said and Javert started to correct him, but couldn't, not when the man looked so stricken. Acting or not, it was convincing and Javert's heart was cold but it wasn't inhuman. "That's just it, I've read the scripts and they are wary, distrustful, but they don't hate each other. That's why this will work."
"Until you get me fired for disobeying the producers," countered Javert, poking in the lad na to see whether there was more chicken hiding among the noodles. "You're trying to get me to make a jackass out of myself so you look better."
"Do you really believe I'd sabotage a show where I finally have a regular gig just to make a fool of you?" Valjean's voice was incredulous.
"I think you'd do a lot to discredit me before I tell anyone where we met." Javert expected Valjean to flinch or to laugh and tell Javert to fuck off, but he kept his gaze level, waiting to see if Javert was actually planning to make an accusation. This was not the moment, Javert knew, not when everyone on the entire fucking set was in love with Valjean and when Valjean's character was considered indispensable. Particularly since Javert had no way of proving anything. "Fine," he barked. "Monsieur Madeleine. You play up your subtext -- I'll continue what I've been doing, since you've apparently found some way to interpret that as having a thing for you."
He thought Valjean would tell him to forget the whole thing, but Valjean instead grinned and opened the last container. It contained mango sticky rice. Javert could smell the coconut. "You're smoking hot when you glare like that," Valjean informed him, thrusting his fork into the container, spearing a piece of mango and holding it out to offer it to Javert as if they were lovers sharing dessert.
In fact Javert had never shared dessert with a lover like that, off the same fork, but Valjean didn't need to know that, and Javert wasn't going to refuse anything that smelled so good just because Valjean was being an ass, either. "I'm sure that's why they hired me," he said sardonically, taking the fruit from Valjean's fork, letting the sweet-tart taste spread through his mouth. He wasn't sure what to make of the color that crept into Valjean's cheeks, but he could feel that his own face was warm.
"They hired you because you're good at this. I'm sure you think they only hired me for the --" Flexing a well-defined bicep, Valjean thrust out his jaw and made a he-man face. "And you're probably right, but I work twice as hard as anyone else and I try to be a good guy no matter what they throw at me. Like the mayor -- I really have changed." A funny look came over his face. "You have rice on your chin."
"That's your fault," began Javert, reaching for a napkin to wipe it off and cover the blush that had not diminished from watching Valjean show off his muscles, but Valjean's hand intercepted him, brushing through the beard Javert had grown for the role. He was pretty sure he saw the rice detach itself and fall, but he was too busy looking at Valjean to see where it landed, and he cursed himself for the audible catch in his breath.
"And they hired you because you're smoking hot when you glare like that," Valjean repeated, his voice gone faintly hoarse. If Valjean was acting, it was damn good acting. Javert tried to turn away but the movement brought his lips in contact with Valjean's fingers. It was Valjean's turn to breathe in sharply, as if Javert had done it on purpose, then Valjean brushed the fingers deliberately across Javert's mouth.
It took all of his willpower not to turn the game back on Valjean and kiss his fingers, even suck one into his mouth. Valjean was so obviously a tease and expected the same sort of behavior from him. Javert knew that was all this was, this sudden flirting, the compliments -- a game. Then, perversely, he wanted to play Valjean's little game, turn the tables on him and show him his own skills at the fucking game. Probably stupid, but his lips caressed the pads of Valjean's fingers, just where they brushed across his mouth. This close he could see Valjean's eyes widen at the contact, too focused not to be deliberate. Was it his imagination or did Valjean's pupils darken in arousal?
He expected Valjean to start babbling again about subtext, about working this into a scene, but he just sat there, staring, presumably waiting for Javert to make the next move. "Did I get it?" Javert asked, not even having to make an effort to make his voice sound husky.
"Get it?" Valjean asked, swallowing as his gaze dipped to the press of fingers against Javert's lip.
"The rice," Javert said, shifting his lips just enough to let his tongue flick Valjean's thumb.
The man groaned, actually groaned. "Christ!" Valjean exclaimed, pulling his hand away as though a spark had touched it. "You're good." He gave his hand a shake, trying to disguise his reaction by fumbling for a fork. "Message received." He shook his head and said, "Christ," again.
"You're the one going on and on about subtext," Javert said, tamping down any urge to sympathize, particularly with someone who didn't even seem to think dirty words while Javert's brain was bursting with fuck and cunt and cock-tease. There was a bit of chicken in the bottom of one of the containers and he scooped it out, licking some of the sauce off, quite heedless of clinging bits of rice.
Valjean waved the fork he'd managed to subdue at him. "That wasn't a flash of a smile or standing just a fraction too close together in the long shots," Valjean said. "That was 'bend me over the table and fuck me' smoking hot."
Before Javert had managed to think of a single coherent response, and long before he trusted himself to speak aloud, Valjean had gotten to his feet. With a grin and a shake of his head, he stuck his fingers into the container and popped the last bit of mango into his mouth.
"Let me help you clean this up," he said as if they'd been talking about lunch the whole time.
"I didn't think you said words like 'fuck,'" Javert managed to utter. It might have been inane, but at least his voice didn't shake.
"Monsieur Madeleine doesn't," explained Valjean. "I mean, ever, even in his head, so I'm trying to get out of the habit." He blushed a bit. "Actually, I'm trying to get out of the habit anyway, and live a clean, upstanding life. But I lose my cool more easily than Madeleine. Anyway, I'm surprised that you say words like 'fuck' -- I thought you were too controlled for that."
"It's not illegal," grunted Javert. He wasn't about to explain that he was chanting fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck in his head right then while willing his prick to go down. "I think it more than I say it."
"Me too, but I'm trying to stop." Valjean was still grinning as he added, "Generally I don't ask people to bend me over the table on a first date, either." Turning, he found the paper towels and started wiping up the table. It would have been polite for Javert to help, but Javert didn't dare stand lest his hard-on be immediately obvious despite his clothes. Instead he collected the empty containers, separating the recyclables from the garbage. No one else on the cast could be bothered to follow that one simple request from the janitorial staff, though half the actors claimed in interviews to be environmental warriors and animal rights activists.
"If they don't rearrange the schedule again, we have that big argument scene on Friday with my desk between us." Valjean winked at him. "I think it will make for perfect subtext if we're both thinking about bending over tables when we shoot it. We can go over it at lunch tomorrow."
"You're crazy," Javert told him. Valjean only laughed, opening the door, stepping outside holding bags full of trash before it occurred to Javert to add that this hadn't been a date. He rose and started to follow.
"Jean!" It was Christine, one of the actresses who played one of the hookers. "I was looking for you. Are we on for dinner tomorrow?"
Javert didn't need to listen to this. He started to step back inside but the noise made Valjean glance around. He mouthed something silently, but Javert hadn't worked out what it was before Valjean had turned once more to Christine. "Sorry, but I have plans with Javert," he said, the lie falling with perfect conviction from his lips.
"Oh." She pouted flirtatiously, gave a little wave, then narrowed her eyes a bit at Javert before sashaying off to the trailer that the women playing hookers shared.
When Valjean looked back at him, he was smiling. Thanks, he mouthed.
Javert had run out of patience for this game. He was due in makeup and undoubtedly there would be more new pages before the end of the day. "Don't overplay the part, Valjean," he sneered.