Chapter Text
On a bright Sunday morning in spring, Valjean woke to the familiar sensation of warm skin against his own and an arm slung around his waist. He smiled, even before he opened his eyes, awash with the awareness that it was Sunday, that Javert would not go to the Rue de Jérusalem today and Valjean would not go to the fire brigade’s barracks, that a leisurely breakfast was waiting for them before they’d go to mass at Petit-Picpus’s small church, and that the rain he had so feared had not materialized overnight.
Instead, the morning light that fell in through the window was already warm and bright. He could hear a chorus of birds singing in the bushes that lined the yard beneath their window, mingling with the sound of hooves as visitors arrived or neighbors left to visit friends in turn.
When Valjean opened his eyes, he found Javert still deeply asleep, relaxed in his arms. Awed, he gazed at him, unable to look away from the usually so stern features, now soft and vulnerable.
There were a few more silver hairs in Javert’s beard than there had been when Valjean had arrived at his doorstep in the rain a few months ago. Valjean raised his hand to touch them gently, then brushed his hand against Javert’s cheek before he leaned over him to let his lips follow where his fingers had strayed.
Javert’s skin was warm against his lips, his beard rough. There was a slight remnant of the cologne Javert preferred. Valjean trailed his lips downward, kissing Javert’s bared throat where his pulse throbbed beneath the skin.
Javert sighed softly but didn’t wake, and Valjean raised himself up on his arms to gaze down at him in deep affection before he gently pulled back the blanket.
Warm morning sunlight poured over Javert. Valjean followed the path it took, kissing his way downward to a small nipple, across the firm plane of Javert’s chest, down the smooth skin of Javert’s stomach to the light scattering of hair below his navel.
He kissed his way further down, brushing his lips against Javert’s inner thighs, then mouthing gently at his balls, breathing in the warm scent of him as Javert’s slumbering cock slowly began to stir. Before he’d fully risen, Valjean drew him into his mouth. He kept his eyes open, fixed on the vision of Javert spread out before him in the golden sunlight, waking to pleasure—as he’d wake every morning, as long as Valjean was by his side.
Javert’s cock was hardening in his mouth as Javert moaned sleepily. Valjean drew back a little to fasten his lips around the crown, sucking on it in encouragement before he dipped back down. He could already taste the first traces of Javert’s coming pleasure, the salt of him spreading in his mouth as Javert slowly began to stir.
Lovingly, Valjean moved up and down, Javert hot and heavy on his tongue. Then he bobbed down once more and swallowed Javert into his throat, ignoring the burning of his eyes as he relaxed for Javert until he could feel him stretching his throat, his nose buried deep in the wiry curls at the root of Javert’s cock.
With a sleepy sound of approval, Javert’s hand came to rest on his head. His fingers twined into Valjean’s hair as he kept him in place, Javert’s hips lazily pumping against him a few times before Javert’s grip relaxed and Valjean drew back to breathe.
Droplets of pleasure were leaking from the tip now, and Valjean kissed them away worshipfully, Javert’s thumb idly rubbing against his lips. Valjean turned his head to kiss Javert’s fingers before he returned his attention to Javert’s swollen cock, licking it attentively from root to tip, heat rising in him at the heavy, approving gaze resting on him.
Hungrily, he drew Javert into his mouth again. Valjean could feel the thick, heavy presence of his cock slide down into his throat as Javert moaned, his fingers twining into Valjean’s hair once more.
When Javert came moments later, Valjean swallowed convulsively around him as he pulsed in his mouth. Valjean kept his eyes upon through it all, watching Javert come undone in the warm light of the spring sun, spread out in their bed—glorious in the abandon with which he gave himself over to his release, his damp skin gleaming in the sunlight, his head thrown back.
Valjean swallowed all Javert had to give, lapping up anything that had escaped him until Javert sighed and nudged him away from his softening cock, smiling at him.
“Good morning,” Valjean said, smiling back, perfectly content to settle against Javert once more when Javert’s arm wrapped around him.
“Good morning.” Javert nudged Valjean’s hard cock with his thigh but ignored it otherwise as he leaned over Valjean and kissed him slowly.
This time, it was Valjean who raised his hand, lightly stroking the back of Javert’s head before he let his hand rest against his nape, his mouth opening for his exploration.
“Shall I do something about this?” Javert asked when he drew back at last, lightly trailing a finger along Valjean’s neglected length. His eyes gleamed, a corner of his mouth turning up. “It will be your choice today. I can deal with this now—or you can choose to wait until this evening, and there will be a surprise for you.”
Valjean shivered, his cock eagerly pressing against Javert’s hand. He had to swallow before he could speak.
“It can wait, sir,” he said, a warm glow of a different satisfaction filling him when Javert gazed at him with quiet pride.
“In that case, you’d better get up.” Javert laughed quietly, so that Valjean’s chest ached with the wealth of emotion that filled it at the sound. “It will be a long day. You’ll need your breakfast.”
***
It was noon by the time they left the small church of Petit-Picpus, and another hour until they reached the Bois de Boulogne, the generous forest that spread west of Paris. Formerly a royal hunting ground, now it was where much of Paris gathered on the weekends, carriages with elegantly-dressed people promenading up and down, gentlemen on fine horses eying the ladies and their dresses as they slowly cantered past.
One such carriage seemed eager to escape the bustle of Paris’s bourgeoisie turned out to impress, taking the first turn opening up that led away from the crowds and towards a quieter stretch of meadows and forest. Within the cabriolet, a well-dressed woman in her early twenties sat, wearing a crape bonnet, a pelisse of sarcenet silk and a cape made of black damask. By her side sat a young girl in the sober brown and gray of a young convent scholar.
Behind the cabriolet, two men rode side by side, one on a fine horse with a rare coat of gold that gleamed in the spring sun, the other on a lively, bay mare eager to stretch her legs. A sharp-eyed observer might have noticed old, pale scars that ran across her croup and flanks, but they were covered by the gleaming coat of dark brown that had been brushed to a shine.
“She has held up well,” Valjean said, who had been keeping an eye on Noiraude during their ride from the city to the forest.
So far she truly had performed well, although they hadn’t yet let her go faster than a trot. She had recovered very well from the ordeal of her former life as a cart horse—with a lot of patience, Valjean had proved the farrier wrong and nursed her back to health. While perhaps she’d never again make the ride from Paris to Montreuil under Javert as she once had, her fine features had drawn many eyes as she trotted through the Bois de Boulogne with Javert on her back.
Javert too looked fine today, the first silver hairs in his beard giving him a becoming appearance of sternness that was softened by the pleasure warming his eyes and by the smile that softened his features every now and then when he looked at Valjean or remarked on Noiraude’s fine form.
Javert had acquired a new riding coat of a cool slate gray that paired well with the sea foam silk of his cravat. Today, on the occasion of Noiraude’s first outing to the Bois de Boulogne, he wore it for the first time. Valjean felt his eyes drawn to him again and again, lingering on the elegant image he made on the spirited mare.
Valjean had dressed well for the day at Javert’s urging, wearing the clothes in which Robert had sent him to Paris. Seated on his golden gelding, Valjean had drawn admiring eyes as well—although in truth, he felt more at ease when currying the powerful fire horses than dressing up as a bourgeois, even at Javert’s behest.
“She’s as energetic as a filly,” Javert said and ran an admiring hand down her neck. “Look at her. She’s eager to run.”
“You two go ahead if you want,” Fantine called out from her cabriolet. “Wait for us by the lake. We’ll meet you there.”
Fantine looked just as fine on this sunny spring day as Javert. It had taken some arguing to get her to accept Valjean’s money, and when she had finally agreed, Valjean had imagined her leading the life she should have had, if her past lover hadn’t betrayed her: the beautiful dresses she’d once worn, many friends with whom to laugh, a box at the opera, a suitor who wouldn’t abandon her.
Instead, Fantine had chosen to buy half the business that had employed her when she’d returned to Paris with Cosette, with the agreement that when the old couple would retire in a few years, she’d purchase the remaining half from them.
“There’s much I have still to learn,” she told Valjean, who’d been stunned and uncertain that she still thought she had to work. “I’ve already lost everything twice—it’s not going to happen again, not when I have Cosette to care for. And my bookkeeping is atrocious, just ask Madame Martineau. I’ll be glad to have her to learn from for a while yet!”
Fantine had, at least, given up the small room beneath the Martineaus’ roof she’d lived in so far, and now rented a spacious, bright apartment on the second floor in the same street. She did not keep a carriage, although she had at least acquired a new wardrobe and would rent a fiacre on the weekends she spent with Cosette.
She had even twice succeeded in arguing Javert into accompanying her to the opera—less, Valjean knew, because she enjoyed Javert’s company so much and more because she wanted to keep an eye on how Valjean was treated.
Still, knowing Javert, he must have enjoyed the chance of accompanying a beautiful young woman to the opera in his best clothes, with the Medal of Honor on its green-and-white ribbon gleaming on his breast. Valjean, in turn, had enjoyed the chance to see Fantine so happy. This was the life she had deserved all along, and despite the brand of the coin that would forever mark his palm, some of the burden he’d carried with him for so long had lifted when he’d watch her walk on Javert’s arm beneath the gleaming chandeliers with a glass of wine in her hand, laughing freely, drawing many admiring eyes which so far she’d been happy to ignore.
Noiraude snorted, prancing next to him and playfully shaking her head to protest against Javert’s hold on her reins. Javert, for all that he still kept the spiked bit in his bedside drawer, always was exceedingly gentle with her mouth, even after her injuries had healed. Still, so far, he’d made certain to rein her in nevertheless while they patiently waited for her legs to recover.
“Shall I let her have her way?” Javert asked, nodding towards the meadow hat stretched before them.
Far ahead, they could see trees where the forest began once more. If they followed the path through it, they would eventually reach another meadow next to a lake.
The ground was soft with new grass, easy on Noiraude’s recovering ankles. Valjean took another look at Noiraude who was eagerly mouthing her bit, straining against Javert’s hand. No one who saw her now would have recognized in her the half-starved horse that had collapsed in the snow half a year ago.
“Let her run,” Valjean said. “She’s ready.”
Javert drew a hand over her neck, then loosened the reins. Just like that, Noiraude sprang forward, foam flying from her mouth as for the first time in many months, she was allowed to stretch her legs with Javert on her back—first a canter, then her neck came forward as she broke into a full gallop, her brown coat gleaming in the bright light of the sun.
Doré gathered himself beneath Valjean, and after a moment’s deliberation, Valjean gave him his head as well. Soon, both of them were flying after Javert and Noiraude, Doré’s body stretching beneath him as they raced towards the forest. Valjean buried his hands in Doré’s mane, breathing in the scent of grass and warm soil as the powerful body labored beneath him.
The sun shone brightly, warming his face. Before him, Noiraude and Javert ran, straight as an arrow. By the time they caught up with them, Valjean had taken up the reins once more, gently holding Doré back just a little, his head in line with her hindquarters, so that she wouldn’t feel pressed to overexert herself by competitiveness.
The forest loomed ahead of them now. They slowed to a canter, then to a trot. Although patches of Noiraude’s coat had darkened with sweat, she seemed just as energetic as before, snorting with deep satisfaction as she mouthed the bit, moving with wide, elastic strides as Valjean watched her legs carefully.
At last, they slowed to a walk when they entered the shaded path that wound beneath the boughs of the forest. They’d left Fantine’s carriage behind and were content to walk slowly now, letting the horses recover.
“In the summer,” Valjean said, “we might send her out to pasture. There’s a small farm near Saint-Cloud the farrier told me about—he used to work there a few years ago.”
“Oh?” Javert said. “Do you think she needs more time to recover?”
Valjean shook his head, watching Noiraude again who looked utterly content, her ears curiously pointed forward, moving with clear, long strides.
“She did well today,” he said. “It’s not that. It’s the stud they own—a fine Arab, fast as lightning and gentle as a doe. Our farrier reckons he’d sire a very fine foal with Noiraude as the dam.”
Javert tilted his head, considering.
“I want to see the stallion first,” he said, although he looked pleased at the thought, just as Valjean had imagined he would.
He didn’t say what else he’d spent the past week thinking about—Javert’s order to make certain he’d have a hiding-place, somewhere to run if ever Javert or Robert were unable to keep his past buried. The old farrier had not simply advised him on the Arab stud, but also encouraged him not to wait too long with his decision, for while the stallion was very fine and of excellent lineage, the small farm was mainly kept afloat by its small orchards, and had been doing badly after the farmer’s only son absconded with much of his parents’ money.
If Valjean were to buy the farm and employ the old couple to keep it running for him, not only would they be able to send Noiraude to pasture there or breed her to the red Arab and have her foals reared on the farm’s meadows, but Valjean would have a place where he could hide if anything were to happen.
Not that it was very likely, with Javert the chief inspector of the prefecture and Robert mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. Nevertheless, while Valjean had come to cherish the knowledge that he would never again be able to run from Javert, the farm wasn’t an escape from him. It would be something they could share, and if Valjean bought it under a fake name, no one would ever be able to connect it to the chief inspector.
And perhaps, one day, when it was time for Javert to retire, they might see Noiraude’s grandchildren race over their own meadows...
The thought was beautiful, although Valjean could not, in truth, imagine Javert away from the streets of Paris.
Still. It was what Javert had asked of him. The farm would be a promise of security—the knowledge that no matter what, Valjean would never again return to the hulks. Valjean would be free.
He looked up and breathed in the spring air, listening to the rustling of leaves around them and the quiet sounds of the forest. He was free. He truly was free, despite the brand in his palm. The knowledge no longer frightened him, for Javert was beside him, ready to remind him with a warning tug on Valjean’s own reins whenever Valjean forgot the most important truth of all.
“Next weekend, sir?” Valjean asked. “If the weather holds. We could ride to Saint-Cloud and take a look at that stallion.”
“Next weekend,” Javert agreed, his eyes warm as he looked at Valjean, his lips turned up—proud, Valjean thought, helplessly in love; proud of all he’d achieved and of all that belonged to him. Proud of his fine horse and his fine clothes and most of all, proud of Valjean.
Valjean nudged Doré closer, and Javert’s smile turned into a soft laugh, as if he knew what Valjean wanted. The forest was still silent. They were still all alone, their horses contentedly walking forward.
Then Javert leaned towards him, his hand cupping his cheek, and Valjean found himself pulled into a kiss. Javert’s lips were soft and warm against his own as Javert’s thumb gently caressed him.
Valjean raised his own hand—his right hand, the hand that would forever bear the brand of the silver coin at its center—and covered Javert’s hand with his as he allowed himself to be kissed beneath the whispering trees, with their horses standing still beneath them and a path of dappled green-gold light opening before them.