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“Until soon!” Javert called at the insurgents’ retreating backs as they rushed out of the café to meet the army’s next attack. He smirked at the knowledge that these traitors to their country would be dead soon.
He was smirking still when he regarded the white-haired man sitting at the end of the table to which he was tied. His life had been forfeit from the moment his identity had been discovered, and like his captors, he too would be dead soon. At the hands of this convict, Jean Valjean. The prospect was oddly satisfying.
Valjean said nothing as he knelt under the table to undo the rope. The pistol in his hand was loaded and Javert had heard the man cock it. The insurgents had said he was to be executed behind the building, but Javert would not be surprised if Valjean were to blow his brains out here. Men such as this never played by the rules.
When Valjean rose and gestured for his captive to sit up, Javert obeyed with a laconic smile. But that smile faltered when Valjean roughly grabbed him by the noose of the martingale and pulled him to his fettered feet. The convict’s white beard did nothing to hide the grim determination on his face as he led Javert out of the café like he was leading a mule to the market.
Hands tied behind his back and his legs bound at the ankles with little leeway between them, Javert struggled to keep up with Valjean’s strides. The relentless pull at his bonds forced him to go faster, which he did, but one misstep was enough to make him stumble and trip. Balance irretrievably lost, he clenched his teeth to swallow a curse as he went down like a sack of grain.
Only he didn’t fall. Not all the way. His knees hit the cobbles, but his upper body hung from the noose. Valjean’s thick fingers were curled tight around the rope and a piece of Javert’s shirt, holding him up like a dangling fish. Helpless to move, Javert glanced up at Valjean, waiting to be pulled back to his feet to resume his last journey.
But instead Valjean sighed and continued walking. Javert barely managed to stifle a yelp as he was bodily dragged across the street to the back of the building. He tried to pull his legs under him, but it was no good. His feet and knees knocked against the cobbles while his neck strained to take the weight of his lagging body. A small if pointless mercy was that the rope cut into his neck rather than his throat, so he didn’t hang himself.
When they reached the small barricade at the back of the café, Javert supposed he would be flung amidst its rubble and shot. Not dignified, but then becoming a spy stripped a man of all but the most basic dignity. It would be a fitting death.
Indeed Valjean hoisted him higher. Javert anticipated the fall; the stacked furniture stabbing into his back. Yet he was hoisted higher still before he was flung – onto Valjean’s shoulder!
He couldn’t prevent a gasp and weak groan as the convict’s broad shoulder dug into his stomach. A mere expression of his discomfort, of course! Just as the blood suddenly rushing to his cheeks was due to the fact that he was hanging upside down. Surely neither had anything to do with his memories of Monsieur Madeleine lifting that carriage, or the bulging muscles of ‘Jean le Cric’ at work in the bagne all those years ago. It couldn’t afford that!
But when Valjean let out a few strained mutters of his own as he carried his burden to the other side of the small barricade, Javert wished for a quick death. His body was betraying him in the worst possible way. To suffer that in Valjean’s presence… The thought alone was intolerable!
Valjean carefully climbed down the last broken wine crates that shaped this small barricade. The scent of blood and death was cloying in the summer heat. There was blessed little light here, between the high buildings. He had no need to see more of the pile of dead bodies than he already did, and no desire to add to it, one way or another.
He tucked the pistol under one arm and lowered Javert from his shoulder. As the tall body slid down, he grabbed the noose again to prevent the rope from tightening while Javert struggled to regain a sense of balance. Seeing his attempts fail, Valjean pulled the man upright and pushed him against the nearest wall. A wordless inquiry as to whether the policeman was injured was met with a heavy-lidded glare.
“Take your revenge,” the inspector grated.
Valjean said nothing. Evidently Javert had expected to die, and his interference had not given the man any hope to the contrary. To demonstrate his intentions, Valjean took out his knife and opened it.
“A surin!” Javert exclaimed with a hollow laugh. “Yes, that suits you better!”
Valjean ignored the desperate jibe. Of greater concern was that Javert had thrown his head back in defiance, causing the noose round his neck to tighten another fraction. If it wasn’t cut loose now, soon there would be too little space to do so.
Not risking another frantic movement, Valjean shoved his left arm across Javert’s chest and leaned in with his full weight, effectively pinning the inspector where he stood.
“Keep still,” he said as his free hand slid the blade of the knife underneath the rope of the noose. For good measure, he worked one knee between the inspector’s legs to keep the man from sliding down and nicking himself on the blade.
With but a few inches between their faces, Valjean couldn’t miss the short puffs against his skin. Too many, too fast. At a brief glance, he saw that Inspector Javert’s legendary self-constraint was crumbling, now permitting wordless terror to show through the cracks.
“All this knife will cut is your bonds, not your throat,” Valjean said, hoping it sounded reassuring despite the blunt side of the knife rubbing against the inspector’s jugular. “I mean you no harm, but this rope is thick. Bear with me a little longer, please.”
Javert had welcomed the prospect of a knife between his ribs – and still did - but instead he had received a knee between his thighs. Such torment! Unable to spread his legs or stand properly, he had sagged onto that accursed knee, which rubbed against him in unmentionable ways.
What indecent notions had plagued him before, in that instant his mind had gone blank. All that counted was his body, and every sensation it offered. His knuckles racked over the bricks behind him, tearing the skin; his breastbone hurt with the weight of Valjean while the edges of the brickwork cut into his back. The pain was real, noticeable, and yet this other feeling drowned it all out. His jaw ground until it ached with the rest of him for want and shame alike.
“Kill me rather,” he spat between his teeth. “That is what you came to do!”
Valjean shook his head. “I have been a thief, a parole breaker, a fraud and an escaped second offender,” he said, still concentrating on the noose, “but never in my life was I a murderer.”
“At the barricade. You fired shots!”
“Shakos. Not men.”
Javert let out a growl of frustration. “Not your damn kindness again! I cannot stand it!”
Valjean said nothing, but continued to saw at the thick rope, until at last its chafing ceased and the martingale was undone. Javert watched in horror as the rope dropped. As if he were a dog whose collar had been cut. That should not be!
Very nearly had this surprise suppressed the burning in his groin. It receded to a dull glow when Valjean let go of his chest, and for an instant, the convict’s exceptional strength lost its sway over him. He began to reassemble his usual resilient nature, when all at once Valjean pulled him forward to reach for the ropes tying his hands behind his back. Fighting the tilt of his body, Javert involuntarily grated his hips against Valjean’s massive thigh. Despite biting his lips, a strangled whimper escaped.
“Javert, are you hurt?” Valjean asked, dropping both the knife and the pistol to forcefully grab his shoulders.
Javert had no answer. The lightning in his abdomen shot up and down his limbs, leaving him shaking. The heat and pressure in his groin consumed his every thought; this desperate need for more, closer, rougher…
“Kill me,” he grunted. “For the love of God, kill me!”
“Javert, are you—?”
The leg between his thighs moved. Javert moaned, long and deep and in spite of himself.
“Oh,” came Valjean’s reply. “Oh.”
Valjean felt a blush bloom from his neck to his brow. His first instinct was to be mortified and retract his leg, but he realised in time that it would be cruel to let a helpless man fall. He should not let that happen, especially not when Javert’s mental stability by all appearances had become as precarious as his physical balance. To brace them both against the wall, Valjean hitched his knee a little higher. It earned him a drawn-out whine. He had heard its like before, but that had been a long time ago in a place far from here.
“Sssh,” he hushed and once again pulled Javert towards him, the man’s forehead resting on his shoulder. He now felt the full length of Javert’s prominence against his thigh, and couldn’t help but be impressed. Apparently the military stiffness that the inspector usually carried along his spine also carried itself elsewhere. His blush deepened as he reached around Javert’s back to try and undo the knotted rope with his fingers.
“Leave it. Just kill me,” Javert grunted into the collar of Valjean’s shirt.
“That was hardly my intention when I claimed your life.”
Valjean concentrated on the ropes he couldn’t see, but found that increasingly difficult as Javert’s lower body ground erratically into him. Perhaps this was a response to the stress the inspector had endured during his captivity? Possibly. Either way, they would have to hurry. If the insurgents came to check on them, they would both be killed. He didn’t want it to come to that. He wanted to save Javert. He had come to save Marius, yes, but in this moment, only Javert mattered.
Javert, who was evidently not going anywhere in his current state of mind.
“Forgive me, inspector, but your life is more valuable than our dignity.”
Through a haze, Javert became aware of Valjean breaking the awkward embrace and forcing him back against the wall. His loins ached and his legs twitched, but leaning back, he remained upright while Valjean stooped. A minimal pressure on his ankles, first left, then right, and Valjean stood up again.
“Turn around,” the convict ordered.
Obediently, Javert turned. He stumbled, but Valjean grabbed his arms and positioned him, his face pressed to the cold brick wall. Behind his back, he felt Valjean’s hands on his, with only the slick metal of the surin between them. When at last these ropes, too, fell away, he felt naked. As if Valjean had cut away not only his ropes, but every thread of cloth he wore.
“Face me,” said Valjean in a low voice.
Again, Javert obeyed. It was easy to obey orders, easy when his mind was not taxed with thought. Standing was taxing enough as it was, even when big hands pushed his legs further apart. His groin strained, along with his throbbing cock. He cupped both hands over his crotch, but they were slapped away.
“This is faster. Trust me.”
Javert gazed down. Valjean sat before him, crouched on his knees and… “D-don’t,” he implored the convict, but his protestation went unheeded as Valjean undid the buttons of Javert’s trousers, tucked the fabric and the drawers underneath aside, and without ceremony pulled Javert’s swollen cock out into the open night air.
Gasping, Javert sought purchase where he could. The wall gave him little, but to tangle his fingers in the white hair before him seemed like sacrilege. His searching hands found ridges in the mortar and dug his nails in as Valjean’s hot breath stroked his member.
“What are you…?”
The next moment, all sound died in his throat and he forgot how to draw air. Warm, wet, soft flesh enveloped all of him, so overwhelming that the rest of his body all but faded from existence. A strong tongue cradled his cock, gentle in its roughness. He bucked once before broad hands braced his hips against the wall. Good God! In the bagne, in the streets, he had seen men do this, but he had never understood. Was this why? Was this…?
Then the convict began to suck, and all was lost.
Javert choked. Strangled sobs threatened to rip his chest apart as a cascade of thunder crashed through him. Unable to spill himself in time with the thunder’s relentless beat, his eyes misted over until tears streaked down his face in release and relief alike. The thunder shook his body; his knees buckled and gave way. Only Valjean’s strong arms held him upright as he poured every last drop of himself into the convict’s mouth.
Valjean worked frantically to swallow Javert’s climax without gagging. It had been two decades since he had last done this, but his reflexes adjusted accordingly even after all that time. The inspector’s semen was bitter with self-restraint; a great contrast to the tears he tried to hide behind his hand. It spoke of a loneliness that Valjean knew only too well.
But time was of the essence. Convinced he had caught all, he licked the head of the inspector’s cock clean and made the man presentable once more. Then he rose.
“Go,” he said, refraining from wiping a fresh tear from Javert’s cheek. In some strange way, touching the inspector’s face was far more intimate than touching his flesh. A step too far.
Javert had difficulty recomposing himself. He ran both hands over his face, eradicating all traces of his momentary collapse while waking fully to the gruesome situation they were in.
“Go,” said Valjean again. “I do not expect to survive what happens here tonight, but if I do, come and find me at Rue de l’Homme Armé, Number Seven. I will be at your disposal.”
“De l’Homme Armé…”
“Number Seven,” Valjean repeated. “Go away now! Before the insurgents or the army kill us both!”
To his great relief, Javert receded. The man took a handful of unsteady but determined steps past the mount of corpses. There he stopped and stared at the bodies. His face contorted in a mix of emotions, none of which Valjean had seen in the inspector before.
“I will find you, Valjean,” he whispered, voice shaking. “This I swear.”
Valjean nodded. “See that you do. Now go.”
He picked up the pistol and waited for Javert to disappear around the corner. Then he fired into the air, concluding the fake killing for the insurgent’s sake while Javert would live to see another day. With God’s grace, so would he. And if he survive, he had no doubt that his path would cross that of the inspector again. For better or for worse, he looked forward to it.