Valvert fluff and nothing more.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/81669656
There’s something to be said about the curve of Valjean’s cheeks. They are slow and hesitant to shift into a smile (with the exception of anything related to his beloved child Cosette), half obscured by a snow-white beard. Yet, Javert finds it gratifying to watch all the same.
In the evenings, when Javert has returned from his new role as a lawyer’s secretary, he watches carefully as Jean putters around the living room. The fire throws warm light on the soft cheek, lighting up that pale hair in gold. In the moments when Jean stares at his books and papers, he steals glances at the way the firelight flickers there.
He watches, later as they sup with only each other for company, Jean eating his meal in small bites. Each chew twitches his cheeks and rustles the white beard that half covers them. Javert’s eyes flick down to his plate, but are invariably drawn back upwards. He cannot stop himself. There is something gratifying about it, a feeling of satisfaction that twists Javert’s normally impassive face into a half-smirk, an expression that only Jean, foolish man that he is, can find endearing.
Finally, at the end of the day, when they both once more crowd the living room before they retire for the night, Javert appreciates the way candlelight curves against his cheek. He is also enamoured with the way the flames light his eyes and the satisfied smile lights his features. It is in these moments he finds it hardest to resist their temptation.
How they beg to be caressed! How the trimmed edges of Jean’s beard, nothing like the untamed mane that Javert’s descend into, beg to have fingers run through them. The single mole right under his eyes that asks to be kissed. Javert has horrid thoughts. Not even Valjean could find them acceptable.
And so he simply watches as he has always done. Always watching, never doing anything. Jean will bid him goodnight, perhaps tease him a bit about whatever book he’s chosen from the man’s library to dig into, and will then round the corner and disappear to his room. Inevitably, Javert will take his chosen book, head to his room, spend 15 short minutes reading, before giving up and thinking of Valjean instead.
Jean’s eyes, a pale blue that reflects whatever light settles around him. His gait, still uneven from his time in Toulon. His body, stocky and muscled, though softened with age and the care of his daughter. Above all else, Javert thinks of his face. His cheek twisted up in a smile, lined with laughter, resting against the palm of his hand as he writes. He has even, on particularly loathsome nights when he is at his weakest, imagined resting his lips there for a moment. Surely such a touch would energise him.
He imagines it vividly. The smooth, shaved plane of Jean’s face, the wiry white hairs, and the soft wrinkles that reveal his age. He imagines, too, his own lips. Though they, like the rest of himself, are hard and unfriendly, they might be tempted to migrate from that cheek. They might slide, he imagines, over the corners of Jean’s trimmed mustache. Perhaps even over the laugh lines that have only deepened with time. Finally, his weak and tempted lips might move onto Jean’s own lips, small and pink.
Or perhaps, he thinks with a shiver, he might descend down. Past the angle of his jaw, through the tempting hollow of his throat, and into the private area of his neck that is always carefully hidden by the man’s starched collar and cravat. Once there, he might be allowed to untie that cravat. Jean might let his clumsy fingers loosen and tug down the collar, and he might consent to letting Javert’s lips suck gentle kisses onto the surely pale skin. A prelude, perhaps, to some further unravelling and-
And that is when Javert cuts off his thoughts and either goes back into reading, or extinguishes his own candle and crawls into bed.
The problem is that Jean has learned to be discerning. He knows how to observe and knows how to notice discrepancies, even when he is at home. This is especially true when it comes to Javert, who he has spent decades on the watch for. It follows then, that one evening while they sup on some leftover stew, as Javert is bringing a morsel of bread to his lips, Jean asks, “why do you watch me so carefully, Javert?”
The bread goes down the wrong way, and Javert resorts to embarrassingly coughing into his fist. “Oh, oh dear, forgive me…” Jean hurries to his side, hands up and ready to help him with coughing up the hunk of bread.
Javert waves the help away, cheeks colouring with embarrassment. “No- no need, Valjean,” he takes a moment to wipe his lips with his servillette, “I am alright now. Please, seat yourself.” Jean takes a careful seat, questioning gaze resting on Javert.
“I…apologise if the question was…inapropriate, I-”
Javert waves a dismissive hand, “it is of no concern, Valjean.” He swallows uncomfortably, “I was simply…surprised.”
“That I noticed, or that I mentioned it?” Jean’s fingers hover over his spoon, soft gaze still on Javert.
“Both,” Javert responds quickly before he can think of what he is revealing. “You do not tend to confront these issues directly. In any case, I am under no illusions regarding my discretion in these matters.”
Valjean grants him some reprieve, finally spooning stew to his mouth. “And what would these matters be?” Javert just looks at him, unable to fit his answer into something half-decent. “Are they personal in nature?”
That, he can answer. “...yes.” Jean’s eyebrows raise marginally, surprised that he would relinquish an answer so quickly. He should know by now that Javert is, finally, ever loyal to Jean. Should he ask, Javert will gladly follow, relinquish, and obey. Of course, Jean is too good to do that, but it is true nonetheless.
“Do you watch me to see…what poor choices I might make under your watch?” Javert exclaims an affronted no. “To watch for my health?” Javert doesn’t respond, but his eyes flick downwards to the table. “No? You watch because you…want to.” He doesn’t ask it, but Javert still bows his head in agreement.
The silence stretches out until Javert can work up the courage to look back in Valjean’s eyes. They are the same as they were before. Impassive, but open. Jean asked him a question. He must answer. “Your cheek, monsieur. I want to…” he cannot hold Valjean’s gaze longer, and returns to looking at his hand that is fisting at the tablecloth in anxiety. “I would only wish to hold it, monsieur.”
“Valjean,” the man corrects absently. “You need not call me so formally, Javert.” It is second nature at this point, for Javert to call Jean ‘monsieur’ and Jean to gently correct him.
“As you wish it, Valjean,” Javert replies shakily, sneaking his gaze up to watch as understanding suddenly floods Jean’s face. Any time now, his face will turn apologetic and he’ll reject Javert. Jean is not the type to throw him out for this sin, but that does not mean he would be understanding.
Jean’s face twists into curiosity. “You think I would not allow it?” Jean has abandoned his meal now, instead focusing his discerning gaze on Javert. As is often the case, Javert can only hold it for so long before he is forced to turn his gaze away. He contemplates a few sentences while his fingers fiddle with the bread on his plate.
“Well, you should refuse, as a good monsieur would.”
The man’s lips twitch, his moustache hides the lifting at the corner, but Javert has been around him enough to recognise that amused glint in his eyes. “We both know I fall short in these…estimations of yours, good inspector.”
At that, Javert takes offense, his uncomfortable mien shifting suddenly with a frown. “I do not know what you mean. You are as upstanding a citizen as any other. More so, under my estimation.” Any embarrassment flees at hearing Jean talk about himself so dismissively, This will not do.
Jean huffs, but then shoots him an indescribable look. “Then, perhaps instead of my bearing as a person, it indicates the action being no worse than any other?” He waves a hand though, as though dismissing the words from the air. He stands abruptly, abandoning his own meal. “Have you finished your meal, Javert?”
“Yes.” He cannot stand the thought of eating more. Jean will throw him out soon surely, or reject him and send him to his room. His stomach can not settle.
“Then you might stand. Come.” He gestures to his side. Javert does not quite clamber up to get to his side, but it is a close thing. Jean tips him an amused glance, beckoning him near. “Well? Feel free. Indulge your…curiosity.”
“I…should not-”
“Come now, must I repeat myself, good man?” A devilish glint rises in his eyes then, and he slowly reaches up to his neck. They reach for the fabric that hides away the pale expanse of flesh there.
Javert’s thoughts ground to a halt and his voice rises up in a strangled cry. “No, sir, I-”
“I only wish to aid you, my good man.” But, mercifully, his hands stop as they are untying his cravat. “Come, give me your hand then.” Javert, who could hardly ever find it in him to refuse this man, lets his right hand rest in Valjean’s waiting palm. “Good,” he whispers almost absently. Javert shivers.
His palm is warm. It is roughened by the labour he’d undergone in Toulon, but that was years ago. Even the gardening that would have left callouses on his fingers was years ago by now. Stocky, definitely labourer’s hands, but still soft. Javert’s own hands are almost smooth, interrupted by callouses where his quill rests. Thick fingers gently pry open his hand and lay the back of it flat against Jean's palm. “Here.” He looks up from Javert’s palm to smile reassuringly at Javert.
Then he raises it and lays Javert’s palm against his own cheek. Almost without thought, Javert’s fingers twist into the other man’s whiskers. He can hardly breathe. Jean’s own eyes are closed, and he tilts his head into Javert’s palm slightly, a smile curling his lips and a look of joy on his face. Javert can not breathe.
He lets his hand rise from Jean’s cheek, watching in rapturous stupidity as Jean seems to try and follow his hand. His fingers curl, and he could run the backs of them over Jean’s cheek, eyes focused on the path they take. His thumb trails from under his eye, to the small spot on his cheekbone, and down to the corner of his lip. He can feel the gentle puffs of air from Jean’s breaths. He wants to bottle them up, capture them so he might always be sustained on them. He feels the sudden need to only breathe in whatever air Jean deigns to give him.
“Is it as you thought?” How curious. He can feel Jean’s mouth shaping the words before he releases them.
“No, only…your cheek is softer than I thought.” A fit of self-consciousness wrests over him and he tugs his hand away, back to the safe confines of his own person. He can feel his fingers trembling at the sudden loss of contact. “Forgive me, I-”
“None of that now, Javert.” Jean’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. Javert’s eyes follow it before blinking back up at Jean’s eyes. “Don’t run from me now. That tends to be my role…” He reaches once more, this time for both of Javert’s hands. They are relinquished into his grasp easily. Jean’s hands skim up over his arms to his shoulders, where they tug him towards Jean. Javert goes without complaint, falling into the embrace easily.
He feels the wiry hair from Jean’s cheek pressed into his own, and then Jean’s lips, soft and warm, pressed against his own cheek. Oh. They linger there for a moment before Jean draws back.
“Do you now understand?” Javert does.
Javert hesitantly, but of his own volition, brings up his hand to trace the curve of Jean’s cheek again. “I believe I do.” And then he is leaning forwards that scant distance to replace his fingertips with his own lips. He follows the trails his fingers took moments earlier. Over the curve of his cheekbone, into the smooth plane beside his lips, ending at the angle of his jaw. He can feel Jean trembling ever so slightly against his body. Or perhaps that is his own trembling? He can not tell. They are pressed so closely together. Where does he end and Jean begin? He decides that it does not matter.
Javert feels the poking fabric of Jean’s starched collar against his jaw, so he reaches his hands to Jean's collar. The knot is familiar, and easy enough to unravel. The fabric parts easily, too, and Jean’s throat is freed. Hesitant hands reach up for Javert's own collar, but Javert ignores it and lets his mouth delve into the curve of Jean’s throat, inhaling the musky scent there.
“May I?” Jean’s voice trembles. “I wish to-”
“Yes. Anything.” He leans back in, suckling kisses into the soft skin. He feels Jean’s hands at his collar, untying the cravat, and shifting his collar. Jean’s breath flutters his throat as he sighs. The hands keep parting the fabric. Unbuttoning his shirt to the edge of his waistcoat before they disappear into his shirt to stroke his clavicles and shoulders. He lets out a groan into the secret haven of Jean’s neck, pressing himself against Jean when it registers once more who he is touching and who is touching him.
“Javert, oh…” Those hands tug him away and force him to lock gazes with Jean. “I must…” And Jean is leaning forwards, tugging at the parted edges of his collar to bring him forwards before pressing their lips together. The other man sighs into the kiss, and Javert can do little else but simply respond as Jean consumes him.
He can feel, in the back of his mind, the need to breathe. That need is nowhere near the need to allow Jean to kiss him as long as he might wish. His hands flutter at Jean’s shoulders before settling there and squeezing the strong muscle there. Jean groans into the kiss before pulling away, recuperating his breath for a moment before he presses back.
There is less urgency this time. Jean instead, uses the parted edges of his shirt to tilt him this way and that way, pressing short, fluttering kisses to every corner of his lips.
Eventually Jean pulls away, hands moving to cup Javert’s face. For a moment, he just stares warmly with a smile. His cheek is rounded by the smile and Javert cannot stop himself from leaning forwards to kiss that cheek once more. Jean’s grin widens and he lets out a short laugh. “Shall we retire, Javert, to the living room? We might sit and continue?”
“On the chaise? By the fire?”
“Yes, dear man, by your beloved fire. Perhaps, were I to sit by your side, you might finally be warm enough?” Javert, who has felt the blush steadily rising as he realises the state of undress he’s in, only nods. His thin lips twitch up into a smile as he lets Valjean take his hand and lead him to the chaise.