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The first time Javert kisses him, they are in the garden.
Valjean is on his knees, his spade half-buried in the earth to wrench out a stubborn weed. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he carefully avoids cutting the root, for he must ensure it will not remain and spring back. It almost choked the tiny berry-plant, the one that's Cosette’s favorite. A sheen of sweat shines on his skin. Javert has paused in his own attempts, transfixed by the sight of Valjean so intent, so absorbed - in his own world, yet here . Too many times Javert has seen him falter in the midst of some quotidian task, suddenly distant, his eyes unfocused but flickering with fear, and the pain that shoots through Javert is a lash, is a blow down to his bones, because he knows what brings this state upon him, the memories of a past that Javert helped to inflict. When it occurs, Javert longs to touch him, to pull him from the place his thoughts have traveled, but he knows from experience that he would startle, bewildered and embarrassed. It is kinder - though, oh, so much harder - to let him find his own way back. But now, Valjean’s eyes are clear, his pose relaxed though his face is strained with effort, and as he lifts the root with a small grunt of triumph, Javert’s heart turns over.
He plants the kiss upon his shoulder.
Valjean straightens to face him, startled, but a blush rises on his sunburned cheeks, and his mouth breaks into a smile that lights his eyes.
“Javert?” he asks.
Javert ducks his head, his color deepening in a flush, and he murmurs some excuse. But Valjean’s gaze does not leave him, and oh, he cannot bear the open gratitude in those eyes, and he rises quickly, picking up the pile of weeds to dispose of, and exits before Valjean can say any more.
—------
The second time he kisses him, Valjean has just closed the door.
Cosette had visited, a flurry of smiles and lace and chatter, and it was still rather overwhelming to Javert, who retreated to the corner as soon as he could excuse himself, pleading fatigue. But he'd watched as Valjean’s face had lit in luminescent echo, his demeanor half joyful and half stunned, that she was here, that she called him Papa, that she still desired to see him after knowing what he'd been. Javert had reassured Valjean countless times when he'd worried he had lost her, but whenever she was not here, Javert could tell that something in him still hesitated to believe.
He sees that doubt creep in again now, the moment the door closes and Valjean’s shoulders sag. It is the smallest motion, but it is one that Javert knows too well.
Valjean is blinking fast, and Javert crosses to him, lays a hesitant but warm hand on his arm.
“She loves you, you know.”
Valjean closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he looks back up at Javert, they are full of unshed tears, and Javert cannot bear the sorrow on that face, so without thinking, he lifts Valjean’s hand and kisses his calloused palm, the motion light and soft before he pulls back, not meeting his eyes.
“I know,” Valjean says, and Javert knows his reply is not only to what Javert said but also to what he cannot yet confess, and Valjean’s demeanor lightens just a little, and the tears retreat, and do not fall. Javert relaxes, slightly.
—-----
The third time he kisses him, it is evening, and Valjean walks into the sitting room, pulling off his yellow coat and setting it upon the rack. He's been out, almsgiving, and Javert still worries because he knows these streets, so as Valjean sighs and settles into a chair, Javert silently breathes out his relief.
“There are more, these days.”
Valjean’s demeanor speaks of sorrow, his weariness a coat he cannot shed. Javert hums a question, and Valjean turns tired eyes upon him, and offers a sad smile.
“The times are getting harder. The government -” he shakes his head - “I do not understand why they do nothing. Perhaps Marius was right, to join that barricade.”
His shoulders slump a little.
“They need so much. And I can do so little.”
It is not the first time Valjean has talked of resistance. Some remnant of what Javert has been still stiffens at the notion of defying order, disrupting the peace, but a peace that leaves Valjean so troubled is no peace at all, and Javert cannot help but wonder if he's right.
But now is not the time for philosophy, not yet, when Valjean looks so weary, older than his years, and Javert rises, goes to him, kneels and lays a hand upon his knee.
“You're doing something,” he says, and though he knows the words are but small comfort, he does not know what to say.
Instead, he kisses his knee, and Valjean starts in surprise, but then he takes Javert’s face in his hand, offers a slight but grateful smile. They sit by the fire in silence, the flames casting flickering shadows on Valjean’s face. Javert does not have the words to mend this - but he is with Valjean, he is here. And he will stay.
—----
The fourth time Javert kisses him, they sit under the stars.
For a while after Valjean had brought him back to life, Javert had not looked up. What further need did he have for the stars, when he had a new light to follow, one warmer and more sure? But as the months went on, as he let himself be guided by Valjean, sometimes again his gaze would wander upwards, and he'd see the stars anew - but not as symbols, anymore. Instead, he saw their beauty.
They were especially resplendent tonight, their silver pinpricks glistening in the velvet sky above as he sat upon the bench next to Valjean. Valjean gazed heavenward, a wondering awe in his eyes, as if he saw them for the first time, as if they were a gift.
To Valjean, everything seemed a gift.
So Javert stared, admiring, his own gaze flickering between the lights above and his light below. Valjean must have sensed his gaze, for he shifted, turned his eyes upon Javert.
“It's so peaceful,” Valjean says, and Javert believes it, for Valjean’s limbs are loose, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes soft as the creases on his face.
“It is,” Javert agrees, and how incredible that it is true, that he can have this peace, that he can sit here beside the man who he'd thought his enemy, the one he's come to love. The feeling surges, overwhelms him, and he lays his head on Valjean’s shoulder, turns his face into his neck and presses a gentle kiss into the warm glow of his skin. Valjean murmurs, lifts his arm, pulls Javert close.
Above, the infinite shines.
---------
The fifth time is on a walk, by the Seine.
It had been a year before Javert could return there without shame. Of course, he could not avoid the river, not in Paris where it stretched across the city like a vein, carrying life and bustle, its constant flow. But at night, he did not venture near, especially on nights when the fog crept too close around him, when the clouds pressed down upon him, tenebrous, heavy.
Yet when Valjean invites him out tonight, he cannot refuse, not when his outstretched hand is almost shy, when its warmth radiates through Javert’s body, and he knows he won't let go. He does not notice where they are going - that could not feel less important with Valjean beside him, with the soft sound of his steps a rhythm comforting, with his hand clasped in his, an unearned treasure.
When they stop, Valjean takes both of Javert’s hands in his and looks at him, his eyes apologetic.
“I am sorry,” he says. “I know you have not wanted to return here. It is only that I have something to tell you, and this… coming here felt right.”
Javert regards him, a question in his eyes.
“I needed to say it here - here at the place where you saved me.”
Javert feels his mouth drop open slightly, a surprised scoff breaking through.
“Where I saved you? Valjean, perhaps you don't remember.”
Javert tilts his head, releases a hand to gesture to the Pont.
“You - you were the one who rescued me.”
But now Valjean shakes his head, takes his hand again and pulls him close.
“No, Javert.”
Valjean’s next words are murmured by his ear, so soft, and weighted with something Javert cannot name.
“Javert, after I saved the boy and brought him to Cosette, I knew I was sure to lose them both. I was ready to give in, to resign myself to prison and my end, for what was left? But - but then, I saw you, and I could not think, the fear was so strong, and when I pulled you out and saw you were alive?”
He pulls back, fixes his eyes upon Javert, breathes in a trembling breath.
“I think it was then that it started, though I could not have known, that night. But later, in the time since then, in all our days together?”
Valjean smiles, an expression so unsure, so hesitant, almost fearful - but he pushes forward.
“Javert?”
Valjean's hands tremble slightly. Javert holds them tight in his.
“Javert. I love you.”
Javert's breath catches - he cannot move. He is aware of a pounding in his ears, of the striking of his heart, of a sensation that rises up inside him and erupts, and he looks at Valjean, and his eyes blur, and his lips crash against his mouth.
And Valjean kisses him back.