(AN: Finally, the next part is done! Thanks for the reviews, everyone. :) )
Javert spent the next few days in bed. He slept a great deal, recovering from the fever brought on by being half-drowned in cold water. His body had not weathered the experience well; though fit, he was no longer a young man, and his bones ached.
Valjean was always there, talking to him quietly, bringing him soup or bread, adding wood to the fire. Sometimes--when Javert couldn't stop shivering--Valjean held him until he was warm again.
Javert was too weak to resist him any longer. Suicide had been his last chance to escape his feelings, but now he was too weak to even consider killing himself...and he found, to his surprise, that he no longer wanted to. He surrendered to the feeling of being cared for by this thief; this man he had spent his life hunting. This man who was supposed to hate him.
Now, he woke to the feel of warm fingers in his hair. He opened his eyes. Valjean sat by his bedside once more, looking down at him with those dark eyes; the same eyes that had so captivated Javert the first time they met, in Toulon. "You were moaning in your sleep," he said quietly. "Were you dreaming?"
He lowered his eyes and said nothing, but his silence answered for him.
"Do you wish to speak of it?" asked Valjean.
Silence.
"Everyone has nightmares, Javert."
"It wasn't a nightmare." Javert didn't look up. His mouth had gone dry. This was it; either Valjean would turn away from him in disgust, or... "There is something you must know," he whispered hoarsely. "A terrible secret, which I've sought to hide from myself and others all my life. When you were a prisoner in Toulon, I..." He broke off, his mouth trembling-then forced himself to go on. "I...desired you. As a man desires a woman. The feeling never went away." Shame burned in his chest as he stared down at the covers. He was tensed, prepared for Valjean to recoil, even strike him.
Instead, Valjean lifted his chin and gently covered Javert's mouth with his own. Javert stiffened, eyes widening.
When they separated, Valjean smiled into his stunned face. "Why do you think I never took a wife?" he asked. "It's not because I aspire to sainthood, as some think. Women have never held any fascination for me." He cupped Javert's face, stroking one sharp cheekbone with a calloused thumb.
"Have you ever...with another man?" he said, so softly that his voice was almost inaudible.
Valjean nodded. "In Toulon, and then again, with a young man, when I was the mayor."
"And you aren't ashamed?"
"No. I sometimes wondered if I should be-but I can see no harm in it." His voice was gentle. "I have long felt there was some connection between us."
Javert averted his eyes. He'd thought that all his resistance had slipped away, but he'd been wrong. "It's too late for me. I'm old; too old to make up for a lifetime of--" His voice caught, and he took a slow, deep breath, calming himself. "You should have let me die."
"I could never have stood by and let you throw away your life. There is great good in you. I believe that. I feel it." Once more, Valjean tilted his face upward. "Whatever your faults, I have always known you to be a man of honor and conviction. Your standards for others were harsh, but they were nothing compared to the standards to which you held yourself. I still remember that day, so many years ago, when I was a mayor and you came to me and asked to be dismissed from service...because you believed you had been mistaken about my identity. You worked for years to achieve your position. You drove yourself like a slaver. But you would have given it all up to punish yourself for that one mistake." His voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "It damn near broke my heart."
Javert was speechless. "You felt that way...even then?" he said at last, hoarsely. "How..." A sudden cramp seized his gut, and he groaned softly, rolling onto his side.
Valjean touched his shoulder. "Javert?"
Dizziness washed over him, and spots floated before his eyes. "I'm going to be sick."
Valjean fetched a wooden bowl and held it under his head. Javert dry-heaved several times before a thin, yellow bile dribbled from his mouth; there was very little in his stomach. He grimaced, wiping his mouth. He hated this; hated being weak and sick, hated having to rely on anyone.
Valjean brought him water, and he drank, washing the sour taste from his mouth. Javert closed his eyes, waiting for the nausea to pass...then opened them in surprise when he felt a warm hand massaging his stomach. He pulled away, scowling. "Stop that. I'm not a child."
"I know. But it might help." He continued the massage, lightly kneading the Inspector's taut abdomen.
Javert had to admit, it did feel good. He sighed, submitting, but the scowl remained on his face.
Valjean grinned. "You always look so intense. Do you ever relax?"
"No," he replied, without a trace of humor in his voice. "I could never afford to." He felt himself relaxing now, however, tense muscles loosening slowly as Valjean's hands slowly worked their way up toward his chest. The heat from the hearth-fire and blankets seeped into his bones, making him drowsy, and his eyes slipped shut.
"I just realized," said Valjean, "after all these years, I don't even know your first name."
"Not many do," he murmured. "It's Alain."
"Alain." That deep, soft voice seemed to caress the name. "Alain Javert." The hands slid over his chest, rough palms brushing his nipples.
Javert's breath caught in his throat as they tightened. When those gentle fingertips began to massage one small, hard bud, the confused rush of pleasure and fear left him trembling. "Don't," he said, his voice tense.
Valjean slid his hands out from under the covers. "Are you...?"
"Go," he said hoarsely. "Please."
"Alain..."
"Go."
Valjean hesitated...then stood and left.
Javert rolled onto his side, tears burning his eyes. It had been so many years since he'd been touched gently, and it was the first time he'd ever been touched intimately. God, Valjean confused him so. He buried his face against a pillow, his thin, hard-muscled body as tense as a bowstring. A part of him wanted to cry out to Jean, to ask him to come back...but he couldn't.
Javert spent the next few days in bed. He slept a great deal, recovering from the fever brought on by being half-drowned in cold water. His body had not weathered the experience well; though fit, he was no longer a young man, and his bones ached.
Valjean was always there, talking to him quietly, bringing him soup or bread, adding wood to the fire. Sometimes--when Javert couldn't stop shivering--Valjean held him until he was warm again.
Javert was too weak to resist him any longer. Suicide had been his last chance to escape his feelings, but now he was too weak to even consider killing himself...and he found, to his surprise, that he no longer wanted to. He surrendered to the feeling of being cared for by this thief; this man he had spent his life hunting. This man who was supposed to hate him.
Now, he woke to the feel of warm fingers in his hair. He opened his eyes. Valjean sat by his bedside once more, looking down at him with those dark eyes; the same eyes that had so captivated Javert the first time they met, in Toulon. "You were moaning in your sleep," he said quietly. "Were you dreaming?"
He lowered his eyes and said nothing, but his silence answered for him.
"Do you wish to speak of it?" asked Valjean.
Silence.
"Everyone has nightmares, Javert."
"It wasn't a nightmare." Javert didn't look up. His mouth had gone dry. This was it; either Valjean would turn away from him in disgust, or... "There is something you must know," he whispered hoarsely. "A terrible secret, which I've sought to hide from myself and others all my life. When you were a prisoner in Toulon, I..." He broke off, his mouth trembling-then forced himself to go on. "I...desired you. As a man desires a woman. The feeling never went away." Shame burned in his chest as he stared down at the covers. He was tensed, prepared for Valjean to recoil, even strike him.
Instead, Valjean lifted his chin and gently covered Javert's mouth with his own. Javert stiffened, eyes widening.
When they separated, Valjean smiled into his stunned face. "Why do you think I never took a wife?" he asked. "It's not because I aspire to sainthood, as some think. Women have never held any fascination for me." He cupped Javert's face, stroking one sharp cheekbone with a calloused thumb.
"Have you ever...with another man?" he said, so softly that his voice was almost inaudible.
Valjean nodded. "In Toulon, and then again, with a young man, when I was the mayor."
"And you aren't ashamed?"
"No. I sometimes wondered if I should be-but I can see no harm in it." His voice was gentle. "I have long felt there was some connection between us."
Javert averted his eyes. He'd thought that all his resistance had slipped away, but he'd been wrong. "It's too late for me. I'm old; too old to make up for a lifetime of--" His voice caught, and he took a slow, deep breath, calming himself. "You should have let me die."
"I could never have stood by and let you throw away your life. There is great good in you. I believe that. I feel it." Once more, Valjean tilted his face upward. "Whatever your faults, I have always known you to be a man of honor and conviction. Your standards for others were harsh, but they were nothing compared to the standards to which you held yourself. I still remember that day, so many years ago, when I was a mayor and you came to me and asked to be dismissed from service...because you believed you had been mistaken about my identity. You worked for years to achieve your position. You drove yourself like a slaver. But you would have given it all up to punish yourself for that one mistake." His voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "It damn near broke my heart."
Javert was speechless. "You felt that way...even then?" he said at last, hoarsely. "How..." A sudden cramp seized his gut, and he groaned softly, rolling onto his side.
Valjean touched his shoulder. "Javert?"
Dizziness washed over him, and spots floated before his eyes. "I'm going to be sick."
Valjean fetched a wooden bowl and held it under his head. Javert dry-heaved several times before a thin, yellow bile dribbled from his mouth; there was very little in his stomach. He grimaced, wiping his mouth. He hated this; hated being weak and sick, hated having to rely on anyone.
Valjean brought him water, and he drank, washing the sour taste from his mouth. Javert closed his eyes, waiting for the nausea to pass...then opened them in surprise when he felt a warm hand massaging his stomach. He pulled away, scowling. "Stop that. I'm not a child."
"I know. But it might help." He continued the massage, lightly kneading the Inspector's taut abdomen.
Javert had to admit, it did feel good. He sighed, submitting, but the scowl remained on his face.
Valjean grinned. "You always look so intense. Do you ever relax?"
"No," he replied, without a trace of humor in his voice. "I could never afford to." He felt himself relaxing now, however, tense muscles loosening slowly as Valjean's hands slowly worked their way up toward his chest. The heat from the hearth-fire and blankets seeped into his bones, making him drowsy, and his eyes slipped shut.
"I just realized," said Valjean, "after all these years, I don't even know your first name."
"Not many do," he murmured. "It's Alain."
"Alain." That deep, soft voice seemed to caress the name. "Alain Javert." The hands slid over his chest, rough palms brushing his nipples.
Javert's breath caught in his throat as they tightened. When those gentle fingertips began to massage one small, hard bud, the confused rush of pleasure and fear left him trembling. "Don't," he said, his voice tense.
Valjean slid his hands out from under the covers. "Are you...?"
"Go," he said hoarsely. "Please."
"Alain..."
"Go."
Valjean hesitated...then stood and left.
Javert rolled onto his side, tears burning his eyes. It had been so many years since he'd been touched gently, and it was the first time he'd ever been touched intimately. God, Valjean confused him so. He buried his face against a pillow, his thin, hard-muscled body as tense as a bowstring. A part of him wanted to cry out to Jean, to ask him to come back...but he couldn't.