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b-dubs-valdubs · 4 months

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the amazing supercool @bogusbyron and i have just finished collaborating on a fic :3!!!!!!! check it out on ao3, or under the cut!!!

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56217544

Title: Valvert Kiss Proposition That I Got Far Too Carried Away With, or, awesomecool collab

Word Count: 2,575

Relationships: Javert/Valjean

Tags: Canon Era, On The Barricade, Choking, (non sexual but you can read it however you like), Rough Kissing, Homoeroticism, Hate Kissing, is that a thing?, Javert Was Probably Into That, Valjean Is Conflicted, Brick-Adjacent Dialogue, Musical-Adjacent Events, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, i guess

Summary: When emotions are running high at the Barricade, people ahve a tendency to lash out mindlessly.

~~~

Javert made no move to acknowledge the sound of the door opening behind him — he had not the last few times, and he would not this time, either. The students frequently came and went, picking up the supplies they had stashed in the tavern, not acknowledging their prisoner. Occasionally he could feel a glare burning into the back of his head, but most of the time he knew they were far too distracted with the matters outside to worry themselves with the old spy they had tied to the table.

It was the same when he heard several of them file in and begin discussing their plans and revising what resources they still had left; the integrity of their barricades across the city, with the rebellion still lighting the streets with musket-fire and smoke, like a thick bonfire.

Javert listened. He knew he would not be likely to make it out alive, but what else had he to do in the meantime? If, by some gargantuan miracle, he did escape, the information might be useful; so he listened.

There wasn’t much to be said, but it sounded like Javert should not hold out much hope. It was likely he would be shot in the coming days after the barricade fell.

Twenty-six men was all they had, with eight surplus muskets. He almost felt sorry for their meagre effort, maybe even somewhat impressed — but they were his jailors and would be his executors, he had only disdain to spare them.

In fact, they discussed his execution, and it seemed he was to be put down like a dog. He had hoped his death would have been more dignified, but at heart he had expected this from the beginning, and he had accepted it. He closed his eyes and took a quiet breath.

It hitched when he heard the voice of Jean Valjean from the crowd. Blood rushed to his ears, the world around him beginning to spin — he kept his eyes shut tight. When his hearing returned, he heard Valjean make a request. To blow out that man’s brains myself.

It was then that Javert lifted his head and looked over, and saw the man standing amidst the group of students, looking expectantly at their commander.

“I think that would be fitting,” Javert said, solemn and level.

The commander, Enjolras, allowed it. Valjean took his place at the end of the table with a pistol in hand as the sound of trumpets pealed through the air outside. Everyone stood to attention, as they had planned.

A boy’s voice which was vaguely familiar cried out from on the barricade, and they all rushed from the room at Enjolras’ command. “You’re no better off than I am. I’ll be seeing you soon!” Javert called out.

Now, he found himself alone with Jean Valjean, who made quick work of untying him from the table and gestured for him to stand, to which Javert obeyed. Javert wore an unpleasant expression, the kind that creased his nose in a smile which more resembled a sneer, his steely eyes fixed on the other man as he stood up straight for the first time since his capture, vertebrae cracking slightly at the motion.

Valjean did not return such an expression, or any at all, only took Javert by martingale at his chest and tugged roughly, thus beginning their slow trek outside and across the barricade. Valjean took quick glances at the students, all stood at the ready atop their wooden battlements, muskets in hand. They reached a spot where it was low enough to be clambered over, where Valjean did not let go of the other man’s bindings as he awkwardly clambered over it, before following him shortly.

Once they were far enough into the alleyway as to not be seen by the schoolboys, Valjean halted suddenly. Javert stumbled a little but otherwise kept quiet, still smirking in the bare face of death. Valjean laid his palm flat against Javert’s chest, pushing him up against the nearby brick wall, watching as Javert rested the back of his head against it as if resigning himself to his fate: the resolute, stony inspector forced to yield and yet still triumphant in that he was right — that Jean Valjean would take his life in an act of brutal revenge and let him bleed out at the foot of the wall amongst the grot, that Valjean was still the violent convict he had always known. His face remained perfectly neutral, eyeing Valjean with an expression that sought to bore into his mind, a slight smirk playing upon his lips. He was still yet a sentinel, and knew that even in death — as brutal and undignified as one could be — he would remain righteous, the star hanging over the wretched to judge and condemn.

Valjean saw him; regarded him coolly. He watched how Javert was still under his gaze, yet had a form of energy about him, like a pot of water about to boil over.

“Go on,” Javert hissed, baring his fangs in a grimace, “Take your revenge - you’ve been hungering for this since Toulon. I know it.”

Not an ounce of expression was betrayed as Valjean reached for the pocket-knife on his person, the glint of the blade catching the dying moonlight in its cold, silver sheen.

In any man, the sight of the blade — of a knife such as this one — could only promise a drawn-out, painful death; it was to have your throat slit, choking and hacking on blood as it overwhelms the air in your lungs, forcing it out through your mouths in little gasps, and be left until the blood loss takes hold and brings you into the embrace of the Reaper. Javert was apparently not such a man to quiver at that notion. He only grinned more fiercely, his thin lip stretching over his gums in a snarl of victory.

“Ah, of course,” he gloated, goading Valjean, puffing out his chest, bound as he was, “A knife for a cut-throat criminal. It’s more fitting.”

Valjean’s palm pressed firmer against Javert’s chest, as if he were a lion pinning his prey in place on the ground. His brown eyes, the hue of intoxicating nectar, caught Javert’s own — superseding the coldness in Javert’s own gaze. Under his gaze, Javert seemed to retreat somewhat, leaning back against the wall; he held this distant contact as his chest expanded into the soft pressure of Valjean’s palm, inspiring a breath unusually slow and deep. As quickly as it had intensified, the pressure then released, and Valjean retreated a step.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

Javert obeyed, flashing a self-satisfied expression at Valjean as he did so. Valjean paid him no heed, reaching for Javert’s bound wrists and watching as the serrated knife-edge sawed through the bonds.

As the fraying ropes fell away, with their proximity Valjean noticed the muscles in Javert’s back tensing, and could hear the sharp intake of breath. Both men remained still.

Eventually, Valjean spoke the three words that had been told to him only as lies; ”You are free.”

Javert turned back to regard him. Gone was his smug expression, replaced only with fearful awe and trepidation. “I don’t understand,” he uttered, scarcely above a whisper, like one might murmur to themselves, entranced.

“Clear out,” Valjean muttered, his face close to Javert’s as if conspiring amongst themselves. At this distance, he could feel every faltered breath of Javert’s fan out over his upper lip, huffing from his nose sporadically.

A flash of rage crossed Javert’s face. “Take care, Valjean!” he exclaimed, paying no heed to the established noise level, his tone teetering on the edge of hysterical.

Valjean gripped the noose around Javert’s neck, pulling him closer until their noses almost touched — able to see each twitch of Javert’s eyelid as he held Valjean’s impassive gaze, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. Valjean studied him (acutely aware that Javert could hear each tremble of his lungs as he struggled to calm his breathing) only to slip the loop of rope over his head, freeing him of that as well, before reiterating: “Clear out of here, you are free.”

An unreadable expression crossed Javert’s face before the tiger pounced at Valjean, fisting his paws into Valjean’s shirt. “I know you, Jean Valjean. I am warning you: you attempt to exchange my freedom for yours? There will be no such transaction with me. I am not you — I cannot be bought with promises of freedom, I will not steal my life unlawfully such as you have done, I will never be you, Jean Valjean. Do you understand me, Jean Valjean? I know you — yes! — I know you, I can see your motives plain. You plan to buy me — well! Javert cannot be bought. You will still answer to the Law for what you have done, do you hear me, 24601?” He spat those numbers like he was spitting grit from his bread.

With a slight flicker across his eyes, Valjean lashed forward with his large hands and they found their way around Javert’s thick neck, the force of the attack knocking him backwards and his back collided with the wall once more. Javert spluttered, his eyes wide and crazed, as he clawed Valjean's arms before settling their clasp on his wrists. For a moment Valjean worried that he had seriously hurt Javert when a glassy sort of look waned over his eyes, before fixing themselves back to glare at Valjean. His scowl became a look of submission, clearly realising the strength Valjean held over him as he felt the flexing muscle of the arms he was clutching onto for dear life.

When Javert’s knees began buckling clumsily from underneath him, Valjean knew he had the upper hand. He had the upper hand from the start, Javert had been his prisoner, at his mercy, his life in his hand - but that is exactly what Javert had wanted, and he had been determined to keep it that way. Though he huffed under Valjean’s grasp at his throat, it was not tight enough to be a serious threat. The look in Javert’s eye told him he knew it. Valjean meant only to intimidate.

For a moment, before he spoke again, he watched the scene in front of him with a kind of awe; their faces were still close, now almost level with each other, Javert’s ragged and desperate breaths disturbed the loose hairs that had fallen into Valjean’s face in the tousle. Javert’s eyes, which were often squinted in that haunting leer of his, bulged from his head as the skin around them flushed. Valjean let his eyes wander to a trail of spit which had broken from his lips and ran down his chin.

If their situation were not so dire, Valjean might have pushed closer. He blinked hard, choosing not to get distracted at this moment. Instead, he uttered; “You’re wrong, Javert. I am only a man. Nothing more, nothing less. It is not my right to end your life.”

Javert continued to stare at Valjean with that oddly open gaze, his mouth falling open in little gasps and grunts. Then, the grip around his throat lessened, and he found himself being relinquished. He teetered on unsteady legs for a moment, falling into the weight of Valjean’s chest as his knees refused to support his weight.

That strange, glassy expression was still worn even as Valjean righted him again, holding him under the arms until Javert could stand on steady footing again.

“If I make it out of here alive,” Valjean sighed, feeling as if his next words could overturn his very life, “I reside at number seven, Rue de l’Homme Armé, under the name of Fauchelevent.”

The very confession was like a seal, like the coffin lid closing over the living corpse of Jean Valjean. His life would be no more; all that mattered was Cosette’s happiness, and after he had rescued her true love, he would have no space in her life — her happiness would no longer be dependent on him after today. It was for the best. It was the love that she deserved, rather than that of an old convict.

He nailed his own coffin door shut, blocking each hole with a strange form of grief, allowing no air for his escape.

His lungs could hardly intake breath as he regarded Javert; it would not be the last time.

“Go.”

For a moment, Javert did not move, still hunched slightly and breathing deeply, his heavy arms hanging at his side. His gaze was fixed on Valjean’s, his icy blue eyes piercing him with a contempt which shuddered and faltered like the decaying foundation of a building. Then, as his chest expanded with an inhale, he stiffened, letting the military posture return. His slack jaw snapped shut and set, his brow furrowed and he scowled. He said nothing. He stared at the space above Valjean’s head rather than at him.

Valjean found that Javert’s hands had suddenly made their way to the sides of his head, and before he could have asked about it, thought about it or even looked at the other man to read his expression: his face was far too close to have done so, and felt the heat of another mouth on his, rough lips on rough lips, almost bowled over by the force at which Javert had launched himself at Valjean.

He couldn’t help the shocked noise that escaped him. Javert was kissing him, roughly, though it was hardly a kiss, all teeth and lips, no tongue like passionate lovers shared in their private rendezvous. It was more like a predatorial bite.

What surprised Valjean most is the fact he found he didn’t really want to pull back from the embrace at all.

Javert gripped the other man’s head tightly from either side, fingers digging into his hair, the heel of his palm pressing uncomfortably against his cheekbone. It was harsh. It wasn’t affectionate by any means, perhaps desperate. But the tear that fell from Javert’s eye onto Valjean’s cheek did not go unnoticed.

It was over as soon as it had happened, like it had never happened at all. Javert shoved Valjean’s shoulder fiercely as he turned on his heel without a backward glance.

Valjean stood, in stunned silence, watching Javert’s figure retreat through the alley and turn the corner, out of sight. With shaking hands, he brought two fingers to his face to touch gently upon his lips, still slightly slick with spit. His breath hitched, as if enchanted, and stuttered out, breathing over his fingers that still remained pressed against his lips, passing a chill over the wet spot left by Javert’s own mouth.

Valjean shuddered, wiping it away with the back of his hand resolutely, before hefting the musket aloft and firing into the air.

He wondered if Javert had heard the bang that had resounded as he made his way back to the tavern.

“It is done,” he announced.

Yet it did not feel finished: not for Valjean, nor Javert, as Valjean’s thoughts could only fixate on the tingling sensation he still found on his lower lip where Javert’s teeth had collided, frowning to himself slightly.

His mind fell back to the alleyway, when he watched Javert writhe under his hand. He was thankful for the call of the students from the barricades as the National Guard began an attack once more.

#valvert #les mis #les miserables #valjean #jean valjean #javert

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