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The hand on his back was less tentative than it once had been, the fingers tracing the old marks gentle, as if not wanting to be caught. Valjean kept still, lying on his stomach with his eyes closed, smiling into the pillow. Early morning sounds were drifting through the half-open window.
"I know you are awake," Javert said. The hand came to rest just above the small of his back. "I can tell from the way you are breathing."
"How observant you are." The hand gave him a fond pat, then withdrew, and Valjean rolled over onto his back. He opened his eyes to find Javert studying him, and smiled. "Did my scars tell you anything new and interesting?"
Javert gave a snort. He leaned in and kissed Valjean's brow. "Nothing I didn't already know. Thankfully," he added, almost as an afterthought. Before Valjean could say anything, Javert kissed him again, on the mouth this time.
They lay in silence for a while, looking into each other's eyes, each of them with a faint smile upon his lips. The spectre of Toulon did not seem so frightful anymore, not after all that had happened this last year. It had faded, Valjean thought, worn away by mornings like this -- quiet and drowsy before the day began -- as well as by heated nights, passionate discussions sometimes bordering on arguments, confessions spilling from their mouths and taking them both by surprise. Javert was a living man now, of flesh and blood; never again would he appear to Valjean as the sinister symbol of blind and ruthless law, no more than Valjean would embody lawlessness in his eyes. They were past that, irrevokably so, having entered a new and hitherto undiscovered country.
In its way it was more terrifying than anything that had come before, because he knew how easily they could cause each other pain. A symbol is not hurt by thoughtless anger; a stone does not crack from hasty words. Not so with a living man, whose heart beats and yearns and loves like your own, as much as he himself might be surprised by this discovery. After that fateful night the barricade fell -- when they had spared each other in turn, when he had found Javert on the bridge -- it had taken them months to approach each other, to grow accustomed to one another's ways, to learn to know each other as men and not symbols; and, finally, to discover what was hidden in the hearts of both. And when their bodies followed where their hearts led, it seemed the most natural course of all, shaped by their shared past and granted by God's eternal grace.
For surely only God's grace would allow such a thing: that these scars, which nobody had seen for decades, should be traced by careful fingers in a cool bedroom on a bright June morning.
"You are thinking," Javert said. "Let me guess. You only look like that when thinking about God, or when you are about to kiss me. Which one is it?"
"Both, actually." To prove as much he leaned in and kissed Javert, who did not protest. Then Valjean pulled back a little. "My turn. You look as if you are pondering something."
"Is that so?" Javert raised an eyebrow. "Very well." He stretched out on his back, folded his arms under his head, and looked at Valjean thoughtfully. "I was thinking about Montreuil," he said.
Valjean stretched out next to him, in a similar position. "Yes?"
"We were friendly, were we not? As much as seemed proper for a mayor and a police inspector, at any rate."
"I would like to think we were. I remember you as most attentive."
Javert coloured a bit. "Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "Monsieur Madeleine did cut a fine figure."
Valjean laughed. "Am I supposed to be jealous?"
"You would have no reason to be," said Javert, his lips quirking. "After all, the mayor did always keep his distance from me... even though I might have wished it otherwise." His eyes moved over Valjean's face thoughtfully. "It confused me," he said.
Valjean touched his cheek. "What did?"
"His behaviour -- your behaviour, I should say, you old masquerader. At times, you seemed quite appreciative of my presence; at other times, you were almost cold... I was not certain what to make of it."
"You must remember I had cause to be afraid," Valjean said gently. He touched Javert's cheek again, to reassure him his words were not meant as a reproach. "I knew you were suspicious about me."
"But it did seem to me that you took an interest in me nonetheless," Javert insisted, turning on his side to face him. "At least, that's what I liked to believe. And you know that my suspicions were nothing more than that -- suspicions. I did not want to believe them, though I felt I could not fail to act."
"I know that," said Valjean hesitantly, not quite sure what to say. "I always admired your tireless dedication and your integrity, Javert. I could see you were not a bad man, though you were a danger to me." He sighed. "It pained me to know you would think less of me if you knew the truth, and yet I appreciated your company. I had the impression you appreciated mine as well, which only made it worse."
"Appreciated your company!" Javert snorted. "We both know I wanted nothing more than for you to bend me over your desk and have your way with me."
As soon as the words were out, he clamped his mouth shut, his cheeks going red. Valjean felt his own face grow hot in turn. "Really?" he said, his voice somewhat choked.
"Apparently we both didn't know," Javert muttered. He snorted again. "And to think I feared it might be obvious."
He seemed irritated with himself, so Valjean reached out and clasped his hand. "It would have been a foul thing to do," he said, realising it was a bad choice of words when Javert tensed. "Although the thought is appealing." He brought Javert's hand to his mouth and kissed it. "But you wanted Madeleine, and I could only have given you Valjean. It would not have been right."
Javert let out a long breath. "No. In fact, that is what I told myself." He studied Valjean's face. "It confused me, however. That a convict such as you -- such as the man I believed you to be -- would not exploit me so. Would not use me in all the ways he could and laugh about it afterwards. It disturbed me. I could not let myself think about it too much."
Valjean sighed, letting go of Javert's hand. "Does it still surprise you that I would not do such a thing?"
Javert leaned over and kissed his temple. "No," he whispered in Valjean's ear. "No. Not from the man who saved my life twice in one night. But I did not know then that you were that man."
"I do not know it myself," Valjean whispered back. "I was still so angry back then, deep down, even though I tried hard not to be... Perhaps I would have been tempted to. I hope not." He closed his eyes as a memory came to him. "Perhaps I would have been tempted to, that day when you asked for your dismissal, had the news you brought me not been so grave. I could hardly think of anything else then."
"And I could hardly think of anything but the punishment you had denied me," said Javert dryly. "Though you were of course the man of mercy back then, too."
"The punishment," Valjean said, meeting Javert's eyes. Something flickered there, an unexpected and yet familiar flame. "What sort of punishment did you imagine me inflicting upon you?"
Javert smiled slowly. He inched closer, until he was lying on his stomach next to Valjean, a hand on Valjean's chest. "Do you really want to know?"
Valjean nodded. "I believe I do. It might, ah, do you good to tell me. Perhaps it is not too late." Even as he said the words, he wondered where they came from, but the look in Javert's eyes indicated they were not at all amiss.
"Well." Javert drummed his fingers on Valjean's chest thoughtfully. "You would, of course, strip me of my uniform."
Valjean smiled at that, letting a hand glide down to Javert's naked buttocks. "It seems we are, indeed, too late."
Javert batted his hand away. "You would tell me I was not fit for my position -- oh, do stop sniggering! You would inform me that my insubordination was most disappointing and that you would take it upon yourself to discipline me in the way you saw fit."
"Ah." Valjean wet his lips, a strange feeling in his stomach, mixed with the unmistakeable beginnings of arousal.
"And then," Javert whispered, leaning close to his ear, "you would bend me over your desk. And I would offer myself up -- not to your mercy, no, but to your punishment, giving myself over to you completely, taking everything you inflicted on me. The more painful, the better."
He stopped, suddenly, looking away. Then he looked back. His face was red. "I would give myself to you completely. I would let you do anything you wanted."
Valjean's throat tightened at the words, even more so at the hint of longing in Javert's voice. He reached out tentatively and touched Javert's cheek, as he had done earlier. "Is this something you still wish for?"
Javert's eyes scanned Valjean's face warily. "Do you think me depraved?"
"I could never think such a thing," Valjean said and meant it. All the same, the thought that Javert secretly wished to be punished -- that punishment, to him, was not only a means to right a perceived mishap, but something that made his eyes glitter and filled his voice with longing -- seemed strange, almost obscene. A small voice whispered in his mind that Javert would never have wished such a thing if he, too, had suffered the lash in Toulon. Valjean immediately shut away the uncharitable thought.
"We could try it," he found himself saying, kissing the corner of Javert's mouth, stroking his cheek. "If it's something that would bring you pleasure. We could... We could pretend. If you wish." He dared not quite look Javert in the eye. "I will give you everything you wish for, if it is in my power to give it."
A second of silence. More seconds. His heart was beating loudly. Then Javert leaned in and kissed him thoroughly, a hot tongue pushing past his lips. When Javert pulled back, the gleam in his eyes was more fierce still. "Let's have breakfast first," he said.
~
He felt somewhat ridiculous when he tied his cravat, having made sure the sleeves of his shirt were buttoned all the way to the wrists, the way they had always been in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Two men their age, playacting like children -- not that there was anything childish about this, Valjean thought, remembering the glint in Javert's eyes. He sighed, wondering at the heavy feeling in his stomach. Perhaps it had to do with the reminder that Javert had once wanted to send him back to Toulon, almost causing an innocent man to go there in Valjean's place. It was something neither of them liked to think about, another spectre of the past which had faded, if not entirely dissipated.
Valjean pushed open the door to the study, which was the most office-like room in the house, and sat down behind his desk. He made sure to clear away the scattered papers lying there. Then he took a deep breath to calm himself.
He would do this for Javert.
They had agreed, during breakfast, that it might be best to have some sort of signal, so that any pleas for Valjean to stop the punishment would not be confused with the roleplay itself. Although Valjean could not quite imagine Javert begging any real tormentors for mercy, this seemed the safer route, and to his relief Javert had concurred. "A word that is easy to remember, but otherwise unconnected with the situation," he'd mused, then smiled. "I think 'rosary' will do."
It seemed fitting, Valjean thought. He closed his eyes, praying silently he was not about to commit a great sin.
There was a knock on the door. He cleared his throat, automatically moving his folded hands under the table to hide the fact that they were shaking. "Come in."
Javert entered. His uniform was not the one from Montreuil-sur-Mer, but his comportment was similar to the way it had been then: straight-backed, face impassive. "Monsieur le maire."
"Inspector." Valjean nodded, his mouth dry. He did not actually remember the details of that conversation, but decided to improvise the best he could. "What news do you have for me?"
"Grave news, sir." Javert was trembling, ever so slightly, but Valjean doubted Madeleine would have noticed. "I have committed a horrible mistake."
He let Javert explain in detail how he'd mistaken Monsieur Madeleine for the convict Jean Valjean. Listening, he started to remember: the horrible relief and the horrible fear, the wild beating of his heart as Javert laid out all the similarities between Valjean and Madeleine, the way he had almost exhaled audibly as Javert told him of Champmathieu, even as he felt the claws of his dilemma tighten around him. He let the words wash past him, much as they had then, like a relentless river over a chained and drowning man.
A cough brought him back. Javert was looking down in deference, but Valjean detected the impatient twitch of a muscle in his cheek. He forced his voice to be calm. "I'm sorry, Inspector, what did you say?"
"I said," Javert said, his tone carefully neutral, "that I cannot stay on as your Inspector any longer. You must dismiss me, sir."
"Nonsense." He forced a smile. It was what Madeleine would have done. "You are far too valuable for this town to dismiss." Then he pulled himself together. He was not supposed to do what Madeleine would have done. He was supposed to do what Javert had hoped Madeleine would do. "Nevertheless, it is a grave transgression."
"Sir," Javert agreed, bowing his head.
Valjean got to his feet and walked slowly over to where Javert was standing. Don't look him in the eye, he thought suddenly and shivered. He stopped right behind Javert and leaned in to mutter in his ear: "I do believe some sort of punishment is called for."
"Sir," Javert said again, a trembling note in his voice which went straight to Valjean's groin: he'd heard it before, in the dark of their bedroom, or behind locked doors in other parts of the house. So it was real, then, not only some passing fancy. Javert did want this -- was aroused by it, even. Valjean swallowed. He curled his hands into fists, uncurled them again.
"What do you think would be a punishment fitting your crime, Inspector?" he asked, making his voice casual. It seemed safest to let Javert come up with something of his own, but Javert only bowed his head further and whispered, "Anything Monsieur le maire sees fit."
Sudden irritation filled him. He cast about with his eyes and saw Javert's cane. "As you wish, Inspector," he said, wincing at the brusqueness in his voice. Javert's ears went red, though he did not stir. Valjean picked up the cane. "You have a perfectly adequate cane here," he said, weighing it in his hand. "How many blows?"
Javert shuddered visibly at that. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with desire. "As many as Monsieur le maire sees fit."
Valjean poked the cane against the small of Javert's back. "That is not an answer, Inspector," he said coolly. As had happened earlier, the words seemed to utter themselves. "How can you possibly expect me to believe that you see the error of your ways, when you are not even willing to tell me how many blows your transgressions deserve?" Poke. "You will tell me."
A quick intake of breath, and then: "Thirty," Javert whispered. Valjean drew in a breath. He had expected maybe ten.
His stomach churned at the thought of it. Thirty blows with the cane would leave horrible marks on Javert's skin, would make it painful to sit or lie down, just as it had been with the lash, back in -- no, no, he would not think of that. Not now. It was a spectre, nothing more. He would do this for Javert.
"Very well." He took a step back. "You may pull down your trousers."
Javert did so with impressive speed. There was a moment's silence; Valjean wondered if Javert had really wanted Madeleine to use his strength to push him down on the desk. He could not do that, not in this situation. He cleared his throat. "Bend over."
Javert complied, arms on the desk and head down. Valjean watched him. The sight was not new to him in and of itself -- they had done the act over tables before, not often, but on those occasions when passion took them by surprise and they felt carefree and younger than their years -- but it was still different, and he realised why.
If they had been acting as themselves now, they would have kissed and touched each other and groaned into each other's mouths and ears. If Javert had bent over the desk like this as his current self, not as the Police Inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer, he would have spread his legs in impatience; he would have hissed for Valjean to hurry up; he would have pushed back in abandon. What they did might be abominable in many people's eyes -- he was not such a fool as to think otherwise -- but there would be love in it, for both of them, and mutual joy. There would be no talk of punishment or blows, none of this desire for M. Madeleine to act like a guard of Toulon.
How can I do such a thing? he thought, then shook his head, tightening his grip on the cane. It was not real. It was a game. He could do this for Javert.
"You will count the blows," he said with a calm that surprised him. "If you fail to count correctly, we will start anew. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," Javert breathed. He was still silent, the very picture of meek patience, save for the slight trembling in his thighs.
Valjean closed his eyes. He was still aroused, but this did not do anything to lessen the sick feeling in his stomach, far from it. He took a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes again and let the cane fly, a violent smack! on exposed buttocks. "One!" Javert gasped.
His arm worked, blow on blow. He had not wielded a policeman's cane before, but it proved no difficulty. His arms had done so much in his life. Why not this? he thought harshly as the cane fell, again and again. Why not this, if it could be of use to Javert? His arms and hands were just another tool.
"Five!"
Five years for stealing a loaf of bread. A thief's work. Hands that had striven to work, to feed, to save, left to useless crime.
"Seven!"
A loaf of bread for seven children, a useless crime that left them starving -- why not put those hands to use? He was strong, he could work, he could toil. He could take the lash.
"Thirteen!"
Thirteen years of toiling, toiling, running when he could -- all to no avail, there would be no escape for Jean-le-cric -- take the lash when he must, wield it when he must --
"Nineteen!"
What was his name? It was not Madeleine -- it was not Jean -- it was a number -- his arm was working, what was it doing? Wielding a lash, flogging a body in front of him, a body writhing under his blows, a voice crying out, nineteen --
He jerked back, the cane falling from his suddenly lifeless fingers, clattering on the floor. "No," he gasped, and then, again, "No!" He stumbled backwards, bile rising in his throat, the sick feeling in his stomach threatening to spill over. His legs stumbled against a chair and he sank down, swallowing convulsively. "Rosary," he whispered, suddenly remembering. "Rosary, rosary." It was perhaps unnecessary, but any other action seemed futile to him. His right arm was aching; he wished to sever it. He took in air in shallow gulps.
There was a movement in front of him. "Valjean?" Javert asked warily. He'd pulled his trousers back on, though surely the wounds must be hurting him -- Valjean felt a wave of nausea, and he put his hands over his mouth. Javert reached out as if to touch him, but the movement stopped midair.
A terse moment of silence, then Valjean found his voice, enough to whisper between his hands: "Am I so repulsive to you?"
A sharp hiss of breath. "You repulsive to me..." And then Javert sank down in front of him, as if the movement didn't pain him at all. He put his hands on Valjean's knees and cleared his throat. "Valjean," he said. "Jean. Jean, I'm so sorry."
This, too, felt wrong: that Javert should kneel in front of him, asking for his forgiveness. Valjean shook his head. "Don't," he managed, and then he did the only thing he felt he could: he slid down from his chair so that both he and Javert were kneeling on the floor. Javert's arms went around him, but he found he could not lean into them. "I am the one who should be sorry," he whispered, a great shudder going through his body. "What sort of man am I? What sort of man would do such a thing to someone dear to him?"
There was a moment before Javert replied. Valjean thought he was blinking rather more than usual. "A man who wants to please those he holds dear. A man who does not shy away from them because of their warped desires. A man who would not do anything to them without their full consent."
At that, Valjean shuddered again. "You are wrong," he said angrily, trying to pull away from Javert, who did not let him go. "You know what I did, back there... You saw me, flogging others."
A sudden, horrible thought came to him, like a blow to his head. "Is that what you wanted?" he hissed, again trying to pull away and not succeeding. "To prove I am still -- that under Madeleine's clothes, there will always be a convict? Is that what you want? To be punished because we, because you and a convict --"
Javert's mouth clamped down on his, drowning the rest of his speech. His anger and nausea did not vanish, but when Javert let him go again, he found he had forgotten what he was going to say, so he just panted, staring at Javert, who was looking pale and shaken, but no less determined.
"It was the only way to silence you," he said. "Now will you listen?"
Valjean realised his knees were hurting, but Javert was still holding him, and he could not in good conscience make them sit down on the floor -- not when Javert's backside was still smarting from his blows. He nodded, resigned, hoping Javert would make it quick, whatever it was.
"Those desires -- " Javert started, then shook his head. "I know they must seem abnormal to you. I do not claim to understand them myself. Truly, a man should not feel arousal at physical pain, or indeed at any sort of punishment." He snorted. "That is not what punishment is for. But no matter. I do know that what we did today we did because I wanted it -- and, foolishly, I did not consider how the memories of that vile place would affect you. You are so strong," he suddenly whispered, pressing his cheek against Valjean's. "You seem unbreakable. I should have known better."
Valjean's arms went around him then, tentatively. Javert sighed and pulled him closer. They held each other like that for a second, then Valjean asked, "Does it hurt?"
"Not the way my knees do." Javert kissed his brow. "We should get up."
"Yes." They broke apart and scrambled to their feet. Valjean caught sight of the abandoned cane and winced; Javert looked at him quickly and gave it a kick so it rolled under the desk. Valjean took him by the hand and led them out of the study.
"I would not mind bending you over the desk again," he said, feeling a corner of his mouth quirk upwards. "But not in the guise of a punishment. I don't think... I am not quite ready for that."
Javert clasped his fingers. "At least you will not make a martyr of yourself for this," he said. "I am glad."
"Fool." They stopped in the doorway, turned towards each other. Their smiles widened, grew less hesitant, more relieved. "We could make another attempt, some time. Perhaps -- something less violent, if that would not defeat the purpose."
"There is no hurry." Javert reached out and pulled him closer again. "You can dress my wounds," he whispered into Valjean's hair. "We can pretend it is the mayor doing it, proving once again his innate goodness."
"Fool," he muttered again, allowing himself to kiss Javert's ear. His stomach felt easier; his heart had slowed down. His arm still ached, but the pain would soon pass. "Is that another one of your old fantasies?"
Javert pulled back a little to smile at him, before giving him a quick kiss on the mouth. "Perhaps," was all he would say.