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Looking back on it, it was bound to happen eventually. In fact Valjean was surprised it took this long. Loved by the town as he was, every Mayor still had their enemies. So when one day while leaving the factory at dusk, walking though one of Montreuil-sur-Mer’s many back alleys, Valjean found himself accosted by a wine soaked man he couldn't say he didn't see it coming.
Despite the closeness they shared as the man slammed him into the alley wall, Valjean had only recognized his attacker when the man’s hands constricted around his neck. A scorned husband of one of his workers, vehement that the mayor was having an affair with his wife. It wasn’t true, of course, but reason was not something the husband wanted to hear. Despite his strength Valjean could only weakly scrabble at those vengeful hands as the darkness threatened to close in on him.
There was a sickening crack and then the hands were gone. Valjean watched as the man in front of him fell to his knees going limp. Suddenly two officers appeared to carry the subdued man off only for another larger figure to replace them. It was Inspector Javert, he dimly realized, directing something to his men. The next few moments blurred together. Valjean faintly remembered the Inspector wrapping his arm around his before being gently led away from the alley. The streets flitted by and before he knew it, Valjean was standing in the vestibule of his house with a glass of water in his hand.
“Monsieur.“ Javert’s sturdy voice echoed from above as if somehow distant. Valjean kept his head hidden and bent. He couldn’t look Javert in the eyes, he could not bear the cold stare here, not now. Valjean truthfully could not recall if they had ever come into contact at Toulon, but even so he feared the minute their eyes locked it would all come rushing in like an angry sea, devouring both of them whole. Valjean would be scrubbed bare by the sand and the salt, and in that moment Javert would know everything.
“Monsieur, it would be wise for you to visit a doctor.” And with that, Valjean’s heart almost stopped. Doctors meant questions. Doctors meant being stripped off his shirt, forced to share his past with another. Doctors meant an end to Madeleine and to seven years of freedom. Even in his weary state, he could not let that happen.
Valjean moved to put down his glass, “There is no need, Inspector, none of these injuries warrant a visit to a doctor.” It wasn’t a lie. His bruises would heal with time, though he was sure the ache at his throat would take longer.
A gloved hand was now holding his chin to allow for easy movement. There was no force in its gentle nudges as it slowly turned Valjean’s head to examine for bruises. If Valjean wanted to, he could almost pretend that the touch was something kind. That thought seared in his chest, painful in its making. How dare his treacherous mind. Kind! How could he desire such a thing here, at the hands of Javert. It was like a rabbit looking for kindness in the jaws of a wolf.
And yet even still, Javert’s hand had moved to hold the side of Valjean’s face. The leather was soft, worn from years of use and warmed by Valjean’s own skin.
Maybe it was this, maybe it was the events of the day – or the events of his whole life – that compelled Valjean, in a stunning loss of self control, to press his cheek closer into that touch. His eyes slid closed, lips barely brushing over the well worn palm.
Javert’s hand twitched.
Surely it would come now: that hand would turn cruel soon enough. They all did in the end. It would surely grip his jaw, force him to confess his crimes. Force Valjean to denounce himself as the farce he was. Would Valjean let it happen? Maybe he would let it come to pass if it meant that in this moment he could be at peace in this mock embrace.
Instead Valjean was met with an almost imperceptible stutter in Javert’s breathing. The Inspector seemed to slowly and carefully resume his inspection as his hand gently continued to turn his head. Valjean could do nothing but limply obey the movements. Javert’s other hand was on him now, a cold gloved thumb stroking along his jawline lightly assessing the bruises that no doubt had formed. It was only when it made its way to Valjean’s split lip that Valjean finally flinched, eyes fluttering open. He bit down on his cheek and the pained noise that threatened to rise up out of him
It was only then that Valjean realized how close he and the inspector had gotten. Inches from his face, Valjean could see Javert’s eyes now focused on his lips.
“Apologies, Monsieur le maire; I did not intend to cause you discomfort,” Javert said, and at that Valjean wanted to laugh. Javert had only been a source of discomfort and fear since the day he had arrived in town. The irony of it! Longing for comfort from a man who might as well be made of the same jagged rock that led ships to ruin. But Valjean was still here – and so was Javert.
Valjean would later blame the kiss on exhaustion; not of the body, but of the soul. Valjean moved forward, closing the gap between them. He crashed into those rocks, willingly and completely, let the salt seep into his cuts and the sand rub his soul raw. His split lip stung, but it didn’t matter; the gloved hands on his face were warm and Javert was real and present. It didn’t matter; Javert would throw him off soon and this would be over.
Javert hands cupped Valjean’s face. His fingers dug in behind his jaw, dragging him ever so slightly forward. Valjean moved his hands to Javert’s coat, balling his fists into the lapels. Valjean kissed further and Javert, against all odds, kissed back. Valjean could not suppress the small moan that was dragged out from deep within with the weariness he wished to excise.
Faintly, he felt Javert’s hands move away from his face and down to his neck. His cravat loosened, the starched collar of his shirt unfurled from it. One of these hands was on the back of his neck now, fingers searching skin. Hazily, Valjean thought knew what it was looking for. He couldn’t care instead letting out another soft sound. He wanted to pretend that the wolf’s jaws wouldn’t snap shut on his neck at any moment, that his ship had no breach in its hull. He was a fake, wasn’t he? Why couldn’t he believe one more lie? Why couldn’t he ignore the sting of his lip for a few seconds longer?
It was Javert who finally broke the kiss, pulling back. Valjean found his body desperately trying to follow. Javert was panting slightly, lips wet with spit and the hint of what Valjean realized was his own blood. They both stood there an agonizing minute hesitant to move. Finally Javert brought his hands to Valjean’s gently removing them from Javert’s jacket.
“Monsieur, you seem to be—” Javert cleared his throat. “You seem to be in good condition, considering today’s events.” Lightly, as if not to startle the mayor, Javert stepped away. “I will see you tomorrow to deliver my report – and, Monsieur?”
Javert waited until Valjean looked him in the eye before tapping his neck with one finger. Then as quickly as it had all started Javert was gone.
Valjean stood there, dumbfounded, exhaustion replaced with a giddy anxiety. A shaky hand moved to feel the raised scars on the back of his neck. The horrible realization dawned on him. The rabbit's neck was snapped; the ship had been sunk.