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Tradition Sanctified

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"I don't see what makes Inspector Javert any different than the other newcomers," said Bonnet with a puzzled frown. He kept his voice quiet, the words half-lost amid the louder conversations going on within the busy hallway of the station-house. "I cannot think why no one seems inclined to...initiate him into the force." 

"That is all very well for you to say, Bonnet," Michel said, "but you haven't seen the man. You were working undercover when he arrested that mayor who proved to be a fugitive, remember? Javert is..." Here the inspector paused, turning his gaze towards the ceiling as though that would provide him with a suitable description. "...dedicated," he concluded, though his mouth twisted with dissatisfaction, as though the word was not quite right.

"Dedicated!" Bonnet said with an incredulous laugh. "You say that as though it's something strange. Are not-- well," he corrected himself hastily, for he rather prided himself on his honesty. "--should not all officers be dedicated?" 

"You will see what I mean once you meet him," Michel muttered, and then shook his head. "Still, someone must initiate Inspector Javert. It is tradition, and it is hardly the man's fault he's rather, ah, formidable." 

Bonnet quirked an eyebrow at this. A sudden suspicion formed in the back of his mind. He repressed a smirk. "Michel, are you trying to say the man is ugly? I don't see how that signifies. Faucher has that birthmark upon his face that makes him look like a tattooed pirate, and yet you had no objections--" Michel made a sound very much like a growl, and Bonnet stopped for fear that Michel might actually kick him despite potential witnesses.

"I have said that you will see what I mean," said Michel. "The man is impossible to describe, and I will not bother to make any further attempt. You will meet him soon enough, I'm sure. And as for your implied suggestion that I should be the one to initiate Inspector Javert, well--" Michel made a gesture that showed how strongly he felt about the matter. "He isn't my type." He lowered his voice, so that Bonnet had to step closer to hear despite the possible risk to his shins. "Besides, I cannot decide if he would be terrible in bed, or if he would bring his...dedication to the bedroom. If it is the former, well, that ensures certain awkwardness, and with my luck I would be assigned to work with him. If it is the latter, well, that is nearly as bad, for who needs that type of distraction in the station-house?" 

Bonnet had to chew on his lower lip for a moment before he could speak without laughing. Despite the effort, his voice was still somewhat strained as he said, "I take it you did not have either problem with poor Faucher last year--"

"Enough of Faucher." Michel scowled. His voice rose a little. "If you are so interested in the man, why don't you initiate Inspector Javert?"

"Initiate me into what?" an unfamiliar voice asked, tone coolly interested.

Michel went white and made an abortive, backwards shuffling movement, as though he thought he might escape through the nearest wall if he only wished hard enough.

Bonnet turned and looked. Then he looked up, for the man who stood before him was absurdly tall. The man, apparently the formidable inspector, wore an expression that was at once grave and intent in a way that gave Bonnet an inkling of what Michel had meant by dedicated.

Pinned by that piercing gaze half-hidden beneath those lowered eyebrows, Bonnet found his mouth suddenly quite dry, his tongue sticking to the back of his teeth as he tried to clear his throat and speak. "E-excuse me, monsieur?"

"Forgive my intrusion, but I heard my name mentioned," Javert said. Despite his phrasing, his tone was still solemn rather than apologetic. His thin lips pursed, the groove between his eyes deepening as he stared at Bonnet. "Monsieur Chabouillet never mentioned anything about an initiation. But then, he is the chief of the first bureau and works closely with Monsieur le Prefect; doubtless he has more important matters to attend to. What is this initiation, precisely?"

There was an expectant pause. Bonnet was not given to flights of fancy, and yet he swore that he could feel Javert's query tighten upon him like a noose. "Well," he said, and hesitated. He darted a helpless glance towards Michel, but the other man seemed to be intent on rearranging himself to appear as though he'd intended to lean against the wall rather than backed hastily into it.

When Bonnet looked back at Javert, he would have sworn the inspector's expression was wholly unchanged, his gaze as unblinking as a basilisk's. He gave off an air of one who would wait patiently for his answer for as long as necessary, whether he was answered in the next second or the next hour. Bonnet cleared his throat and said, "That is-- perhaps we should discuss the matter in a more private setting."

"Very well," Javert said. His teeth flashed for a moment, but it was nothing like a smile. 

With an impending sense of doom, Bonnet started to lead the way to his desk, which was hidden away in one of the far corners of the station-house and therefore had somewhat more privacy than most. As he passed Michel, he grabbed the other man by the elbow and hauled him away from the wall. "If I must explain this to him," he hissed, very softly, "you will suffer through the conversation as well."

He ignored the sound Michel made, suspiciously like a whimper, and marched towards his desk, dragging Michel behind him, Javert a looming, silent shadow behind them both.   



Chabouillet finished signing his name at the bottom of the document with a flourish. Then he frowned in displeasure and squinted at his signature; it seemed that his pen had run out of ink somewhere around the second 'l,' and the last few letters of his name were all but illegible.

After a moment, he decided it was good enough, for his hand was beginning to protest at having signed too many documents in one sitting and his vision was beginning to blur. Besides, he had used the last of his ink and he was too close to the end of his shift to bother to fetch a fresh inkwell; the document would either suit the Prefect, or it would keep until the morning. Chabouillet leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with his hand not presently smudged with ink. He did not regret his position of course, but there were certain times when he wished being the Prefect's secretary involved less paperwork.

He pulled his hand away from his eyes at the brisk knock, frowning first at his pocket-watch to reassure himself of the time and then directing his frown at the door. Most knew better than to disturb him only a few minutes before the end of his shift.

"Come in," he called, keeping the displeasure out of his voice, and then straightened in surprise as the door opened to reveal Javert. "Javert! I had meant to seek you out tomorrow and see how your first week went. How are you settling in?" 

"Monsieur Chabouillet," Javert said from the doorway. His expression tightened briefly, Javert's usual reaction when Chabouillet sought to engage him in small-talk, but after that small contraction Javert said, "That is actually why I am here."

"Oh?" Chabouillet felt his initial surprise give way to curiosity. He looked closer at Javert.

There seemed nothing disastrous amiss; whatever had brought Javert here had not wrinkled his coat or crumpled his collar. Javert even had his hat tucked under one arm. Chabouillet had a less obstructed view of his features, though as always Javert had done his best to disappear behind his cravat and collar. Aside from that brief grimace at the thought of idle talk, Javert wore his customary austere frown.

He realized that Javert had not responded, which was itself an answer of sorts. Javert was always prompt and generally succinct with his answers, and even a momentary hesitation suggested that something troubled him. 

"Come in and close the door behind you," Chabouillet said. It was a suggestion, though he knew Javert would take it for an order.

There was another minute pause. "Yes, monsieur," Javert said. He had to duck a little to avoid hitting his forehead upon the door-frame. The inspector closed the door quietly but firmly behind him; then he came to stand at attention in front of Chabouillet's desk.

Again, Javert did not immediately speak. Chabouillet found himself leaning forward a little in his chair, searching and finding nothing in Javert's features to indicate his thoughts. "Is something the matter?" he asked with a small frown. "Or did you have a question that Royer could not answer?" Chabouillet had thought that they had discussed Javert's position and duties in full when Chabouillet had shown him around the station-house the first day and then handed him off to Royer for a further tour, but perhaps he had forgotten something--

With a start, he realized Javert had begun to speak. 

"...couldn't help but overhear Inspector Michel and Inspector Bonnet discussing some sort of, ah." Javert paused, and Chabouillet watched in utter astonishment as something like a flush colored Javert's face. "An initiation, monsieur. For newcomers to the police."

"An initiation..." For a brief moment, Chabouillet didn't understand. Then comprehension and something like dread swept over him. In the back of his mind, which seemed still capable of thought, he made a mental note to seek out Michel and Bonnet and have words with the men about careless talk. He cleared his throat. "Oh. That."

"Yes, monsieur," Javert said, but he didn't quite meet Chabouillet's eyes, his gaze fixed just past Chabouillet's left ear. "I understand there is a, well, a tradition. You...did not mention it."

"No, I did not," Chabouillet said.

Now Javert did look at him. He said nothing, but there was a question in his expression, one he would not voice because it might offend Chabouillet, but one which he clearly desired an answer to.

Chabouillet leaned back against his chair. He found that he'd gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles white and his hands aching from the pressure. He forced himself to relax even as his thoughts chased themselves in circles. In truth he had not let himself consider what would happen if someone made overtures to 'initiate' Javert, or should Javert overhear discussion of someone else's initiation.  

"Javert," he said slowly. It was his turn to avoid Javert's eyes, for he had no wish to see Javert's reaction to his words. "The initiation is a tradition, yes, but having known you for a number of years, I thought you would prefer to be excused from such a--"


Chabouillet jumped a little at the urgency and volume of Javert's voice, his gaze swinging back towards Javert's face. The flush was back upon the man's cheeks, but Javert's expression had also firmed, something determined in the press of his lips and the deepened furrow of his brow.

"Monsieur Chabouillet," Javert said in a somewhat more normal tone, though there was still some strange sentiment coloring his voice Chabouillet didn't recognize. "I appreciate your intention, but--" Javert's cravat bobbed with the force of his swallow. "But I do not believe I should be an exception to any tradition."

Chabouillet stared. Laughter swelled in his throat but he forced it back. If he began laughing he doubted he would ever stop. Still, this was utter madness! If he hadn't known Javert so well, he would have thought Javert was jesting. Chabouillet cleared his throat, said with care, "Javert. Perhaps Michel and Bonnet did not explain to you what an initiation generally en--"

"They did, monsieur."

For the briefest of instants, astonishment that Javert had actually interrupted him a second time swept all other sentiment away, and then Chabouillet realized what Javert had said. "Well," he said, and coughed. He could feel warmth creeping into his face, an answering blush to Javert's. "And yet you still wish to...?"

"Yes, monsieur," Javert said. His lips pursed, and something flickered in his eyes. "Though, ah, there is the problem..." He trailed off into a half-mutter, but before Chabouillet could ask him to repeat the unintelligible mutter, he said, louder, "Apparently no one, ah, seems to be interested, that is, Michel and Bonnet gave me the impression that--" His hand rose, tugged at his whiskers, an unwonted, agitated movement. "If that is why you did not think to mention the tradition, because of the, ah, lack of interest, monsieur, I thank you for attempting to spare my feelings, but I assure you--"

"Javert," Chabouillet said. 

Javert clamped his mouth shut on his rambling, his expression shuttering.

Chabouillet took in the way Javert's shoulders were braced, the thin, unhappy line of his mouth, and found himself growing angry. Not at Javert, but at Michel and Bonnet in particular and the entire station-house in general. True, Javert could not be said to be handsome, but there was power in his large hands and frame that Chabouillet had seen brought to bear upon criminals, strength which could be put to use for more pleasurable means. If everyone was too blind to see that, then Chabouillet despaired of the observational skills of the force--

Too late, he realized the dangerous direction of his thoughts and noticed the sudden, startling heat that now pooled low in his belly. Besides which, he had been staring too long at Javert. "Javert," he said again, to fill the silence, and wished he hadn't, for his voice turned traitor, hoarsely transforming the other man's name into a question.

"Monsieur Chabouillet," answered Javert, cautious. His dark gaze was fixed upon Chabouillet's face; his eyes glittered with some unnamed emotion.

Chabouillet wondered if his expression betrayed him as well. He passed his hand over his face, pinching at the bridge of his nose and rubbing at his mouth as though that would wipe any desire from his features. It was all foolishness, anyway. He hadn't participated in an initiation in years, leaving it to the younger members of the force.

"Javert," he said again into the silence, grateful when his voice came out steady. "Understand that the initiation is not a requirement. It is a tradition, yes, but there have been officers who have declined, married men who considered it being unfaithful to their marriage and men who had no interest in other men. You wouldn't be the only officer not to participate."

"I understand, monsieur." Javert paused, and then wetted his lips with his tongue. It was a nervous gesture, and yet Chabouillet found himself staring and unable to look away from Javert's now-wet mouth as Javert continued, "If I might ask another question." 

"You may." 

"Inspector Michel said you haven't participated in anyone's initiation in a number of years." This was said in a rush, but Javert didn't blink, his dark, glittering stare fixed upon Chabouillet.

With some effort, Chabouillet kept his expression neutral. "That is true. I haven't." He paused. "And how, exactly, did my name come up in your conversation?"

A muscle jumped in Javert's jaw. His shoulders tensed, and he licked his lips a second time. "I expressed some doubt that you would participate in such a tradition. Bonnet and Michel assured me I was wrong." 

Chabouillet considered all the punishments that lay in store for the two men, ones which would make them less inclined to be so loquacious, and then dismissed Bonnet and Michel entirely from his thoughts. "I have participated several times over the years, though it has been about five years since I, ah, initiated anyone," he said. Against his will, he recalled other initiations and imagined Javert in place of those men. He was suddenly grateful for the desk, which hid how this conversation and his thoughts were affecting him. He wondered if it would be too telling to loosen his cravat.

"May I ask--"

It was Chabouillet's turn to interrupt. "Yes. Ask anything you wish, Javert." He was leaning forward again, his hands gripping the edge of the desk, but he couldn't bring himself to loosen his grasp or lean back in his chair. Anticipation made his heart pound queerly in his ears. 

Javert's eyes widened and then darkened. Once more Chabouillet wondered what his expression revealed. Javert’s look was familiar now; it was the intent one he wore when all the pieces were falling into place and he was on the verge of solving a problem or case. "Is there a reason you no longer participate, monsieur?" 

Chabouillet was almost disappointed by the question, for it was not the one he'd thought Javert would ask. He took in a deep breath, then another, until his heartbeat slowed down to more manageable levels. "Well," he said, somewhat dryly, "there is the fact that most of the new officers are young enough to be my sons, and some, God forbid, my grandsons." He still kept his hair long and tied back in the old style; he found himself acting like some sort of self-conscious schoolgirl, touching the riband that held his hair and knowing that his hair betrayed his years and was now rather more silver than brown. 

Much to his surprise, Javert's lips parted for a moment in a flash of a smile, though whether it was at the words or the gesture, Chabouillet wasn't entirely certain. The rare smile was there and gone again in a blink, then Javert resumed his intent look. "And what of the newcomers who are not so young? There must have been some, monsieur." 

Such as myself, went unsaid, and yet it hung in the air between them.  

Chabouillet gave in to the urge to worry at his cravat, fingers picking at the knot until he could breathe a little easier. He considered answering Javert's query with the simple truth that there had been no one he'd been drawn to, and then decided against it. He and Javert had always been direct in their interactions before-- Javert's humble but determined directness had been one of the things about him which had caught Chabouillet's initial attention-- and he found himself wearying of this verbal dance. 

"Is that the question you truly wish to ask?" he asked instead.

"No," Javert said, but said nothing more. His expression asked for him, a mute appeal for Chabouillet to do what he had always done before: make a request of Javert that Javert would do his utmost to fulfill. He stood motionless, but there was an air of a hound waiting for a command. 

Several possible commands flitted through Chabouillet's mind, each one more lewd and improbable than the last. In the end, he dismissed them all. "Javert," he said, surprised by his own steady voice. "Lock the door."

The final word had scarcely left his lips before Javert was in motion, moving towards the door in quick, long strides. Chabouillet swore he could hear the click of the lock, though he knew that was his imagination. Still, the sharp clicks of Javert's boots across the floor seemed to reverberate in Chabouillet's ears as Javert returned to his place before the desk. 

Chabouillet unknotted his cravat. He watched how Javert's eyes dipped briefly to his throat before they returned with a tremor of effort to Chabouillet's face. Chabouillet let the fabric drop to the table and glanced at the hat still tucked under Javert's arm. 

"You are overdressed, Inspector Javert," he said mildly.

Color flooded Javert’s face. "Yes, monsieur." 

The words were spoken very low, the hoarse answer going straight to Chabouillet's prick. At last Chabouillet gave in to the impulse to touch himself. He stroked himself slowly through his trousers and watched as Javert began to undress. 

Javert undressed in slow, almost exaggerated movements. First came his hat out from under his arm and set upon the desk. Then his over-coat and coat, draped across the back of a nearby chair. Next went his cravat and stock, also set aside with care. Half-hypnotized, Chabouillet watched those long fingers moving with unerring precision over his waistcoat and unlacing his boots.

Javert slid his suspenders off his shoulders and then paused. It was for only a breath, but Chabouillet studied how those fingers momentarily stilled upon his trousers. Before he could speak, however, Javert resumed his disrobing. His trousers slid to the ground in a whisper of fabric, to be folded and set on the chair. Now all that remained was his shirt, the shirttails falling halfway down his thighs. 

Chabouillet watched the tempting flex of muscles in Javert's legs as he walked back to his place in front of the desk. Javert pulled the shirt over his head slowly, and Chabouillet let himself look his fill while Javert's vision was obstructed by his shirt. Javert's bare body was lean and dusted all over with hair that, much like his hair, was dark with the occasional glint of gray.

Chabouillet's gaze lowered to Javert's prick, hard and dark with blood against his thighs, apparently as affected by this as Chabouillet was himself. He palmed his own cock once more, almost roughly, and then pushed his chair away from the desk and bent to fumble with the laces of his boots. 

He had removed his over-coat and halfway unbuttoned his coat when Javert made a small sound, so quiet that Chaboullet almost didn't hear. When he paused and looked up, Javert's hands were clenched at his side, his jaw set. 

Chabouillet hesitated a moment, uncertain, for the sound had seemed almost a protest. Then he studied how Javert's eyes were fixed upon his hands, the way Javert was almost swaying forward, his feet firmly planted on the floor but his upper body inclined towards Chabouillet, and a theory grew in the back of his mind. 

To test it, Chabouillet fiddled with one of the buttons of his coat as though about to unbutton it, and watched Javert's mouth half open and then clamp firmly shut again.

Chabouillet dropped his hands from his coat. "If you wish to help, Javert...." The words were as mild as his observation that Javert was overdressed. 

Javert flushed, and Chabouillet watched in fascination as the red colored his face and spread down his throat. Someone else might have been too distracted by the blush and missed the tremor that went through Javert's frame then, but Chabouillet saw the small shudder ripple through the other man, how Javert had to catch his breath and swallow before he could answer with a low, halting, "Yes, please, monsieur."

Javert's hands were steady at first upon Chabouillet's clothes, undressing him with an almost impersonal efficiency, but as he slid his hands beneath Chabouillet's suspenders, he fumbled with the straps. He glared at the suspenders as fiercely as he might glower at criminals. 

Chabouillet bit back the smile that tugged at his mouth, for Javert would surely misunderstand it. Still, it was a strangely intoxicating feeling, Chabouillet found, to know that he was affecting Javert this much. He had not realized the heady power of disarming a stoic so with desire that his body betrayed him.   


Chabouillet blinked. While he'd been distracted by his thoughts, Javert had succeeded in sliding Chabouillet's suspenders from his shoulders; his trousers now pooled around his ankles. The only piece of clothing left between them was Chabouillet's shirt. 

"Ah, yes," Chabouillet muttered. He shifted his footing so that Javert could take up the trousers and set them in the corner of the room as he had the other articles of clothing.

And then Javert's hands were upon Chabouillet's right arm, unbuttoning the sleeve, his warm fingers lightly brushing the inside of Chabouillet's bare wrist.

Chabouillet's arousal was almost painful between his legs now. He wanted to touch himself again; no, he wanted to seize Javert's hand and press it to his cock. He was all impatience, suddenly, as though he was a young sergeant again instead of the secretary to the Prefect, too old to be so overwhelmed with desire. He fumbled with his other sleeve and unbuttoned it hastily despite Javert's startled look. He attempted to tug his shirt over his head, and muttered a savage curse as his riband caught on his collar.

"Monsieur," Javert muttered. Then Javert's deft hands were on him once more, untangling him and pulling the shirt over his head. Javert made to turn away and fold the shirt, and froze as Chabouillet all but dragged it from his grip and tossed it to the floor. "Monsieur--"

It was a faint protest that died quickly enough as Chabouillet placed his hand upon Javert's chest and pushed, maneuvering him until Javert had to brace himself against the desk or sprawl upon his back among Chabouillet's papers.

"There," Chabouillet said a little breathlessly. "That's better."

He paused for a moment, looking his full of Javert once more. Javert's chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, his cock still dark and hard and now wet as well. Chabouillet reached out, curled his free hand around Javert's prick, his other hand still flat upon Javert's chest.

A startled moan escaped Javert's throat and he thrust a little into Chabouillet's grip. His head fell back, his eyes fluttering shut. His expression was unfamiliar, open in a way Chabouillet had never seen, filled with want and perhaps wonder.

Chabouillet stroked him, a quick, almost rough gesture, and watched Javert shudder like he was going to fall apart beneath Chabouillet's hands. "What did they tell you, Michel and Bonnet, about a usual initiation?" He hadn't meant to ask the question, didn't recognize his own voice.

"Monsieur Chabouillet--" Javert stopped, his throat working. He opened his eyes, but they didn't seem able to focus on anything. He stared blindly in Chabouillet's direction. "They-- they did not give exact details--" He arched a little against Chabouillet's hand, a seemingly unconscious gesture.

Chabouillet rewarded his answer with another stroke, coaxing another moan from Javert's throat. He took his hand away from Javert's chest and fumbled to open one of the desk drawers. He kept liniment there for his hand, which had been broken during a troublesome arrest in '18 and occasionally ached in the cold. His questing fingers found the liniment. With some reluctance, he took his hand away from Javert's prick to open the jar. It took a moment, for his hands were half-shaking in eagerness to touch Javert again. 

"Monsieur Chabouillet," Javert said even as Chabouillet finally wrested the lid from the jar. When Chabouillet looked at him, Javert's face was flushed but his look was one of nervous anticipation, his knuckles white where his hands gripped the edge of the desk. "I do not-- that is, I have never--" 

For a few seconds Chabouillet didn't understand what Javert was attempting to say, and then realization struck. Chabouillet clutched at the liniment jar. He took in a deep breath even as arousal moved through him like a violent wave. It should not stimulate him so, knowing that Javert had not done this before, and yet Chabouillet had to inhale once and then twice before he had enough control to say Javert's name.  

He set the jar on the desk for the moment. He ran his hand once more along the length of Javert's prick so that the other man's breath caught in his throat. Then he pressed forward, tilting his head up to murmur into Javert's ear. "Just follow my orders as you always do." 

This close he could smell Javert, the scent of sweat and soap and faintly of ink and gunpowder, the last of which lingered despite Javert's strange indifference to guns. Chabouillet gave in to the temptation to press his face against the curve of Javert's neck and taste the salt upon Javert's skin as Javert managed a hoarse, "Yes, monsieur."

Chabouillet fumbled for the liniment and drew back enough so that he had a clear view of Javert's face, for he found he wanted to see every expression that flickered even briefly across that normally closed-off face. He coated his fingers thoroughly and watched a vein flutter madly in Javert's throat.

Then he said, placing one hand upon Javert's right knee, "Lean a bit more firmly against the desk and bend your knee for me. Yes, like that. Good."

Javert obeyed readily, his expression all anticipation now. Shiver after shiver moved through him, small tremors that made his knee twitch against Chabouillet's hand. At the first press of Chabouillet's finger, a surprised whine escaped his throat.

Chabouillet pressed more firmly, watching Javert's face as he made slow, experimental movements, searching for-- yes, there was the sudden surprised pleasure, Javert's eyes widening and a breathless, "Oh," escaping his half-parted lips as Chabouillet found the right spot. His knee knocked against Chabouillet's hand and then stilled. 

Chabouillet stroked the spot, kept the slow, teasing movements until Javert was shaking so hard that the things on Chabouillet's desk began to rattle. Pleasure had smoothed most of the lines from Javert's face, though the constant crease between his eyes remained. Chabouillet found that he wanted to press his mouth there, see if his lips and tongue could chase it away.

But that would involve losing full sight of Javert's expression. Instead Chabouillet took his hand from Javert's knee. He lightly stroked Javert's prick even as he pressed the tip of his finger in. He felt Javert tighten around him, his prick twitch, and murmured, "Relax."

"I--" Javert was gasping as though he'd been running. His knuckles were so white upon the edge of the desk that it was a wonder he had not earned himself splinters. "Monsieur--"

"Relax," Chabouillet said again, and somehow summoned an authoritative tone. 

It worked like magic upon the other man. Something eased in Javert's face, a final tension Chabouillet had only vaguely been aware of. His body went pliant to Chabouillet's touch, his prick, which had softened a little in the past minute, hardening once more. 

Chabouillet didn't move his finger for the moment; he focused instead on drawing his hand up and down Javert's cock, bringing back the pleasure to Javert's expression. He drank in the way Javert bit at his mouth until it was swollen and listened to the soft, breathy sounds that escaped Javert despite his best efforts.

Chabouillet wished, suddenly, that they were not in his office where they must keep quiet, that they were somewhere more private so he could coax wordless pleas from Javert that would rattle the windows. He had to pause and palm at his own prick at that thought, or else he would have spent then and there.

He was breathless himself, he realized, gulping down air. His wrists had begun to ache, unused to the movements, and yet he could not stop, not when Javert still remained so willing beneath his hands. Chabouillet sped up the movement of his hand upon Javert's prick, watched how the crease deepened between Javert's eyes, the furrow familiar and yet unfamiliar.

Then, as Javert's thighs began to tremble and his breaths grew shorter and more urgent, Chabouillet slid his finger further into Javert. Before Javert could tense again, Chabouillet squeezed Javert's prick and twisted his finger at what he prayed was the right angle, and was rewarded by another soft, "oh," and the queer sensation of Javert moving against Chabouillet's finger, trying to draw Chabouillet deeper.  

Chabouillet kept his hands still for a moment, and just watched as Javert rocked a little, the small, desperate movements taking Chabouillet more fully into him, and thrust his prick against Chabouillet's palm. 

Javert's head had been thrown back, his eyes closed as he gasped for air, but now he lifted his head abruptly, his eyes snapping open and seeming to sear Chabouillet with the heat in them. Javert wetted his lips with his tongue. He murmured, "Please, monsieur, I want--" One hand rose from the desk and fluttered in mid-air, groping for words. 

Chabouillet stared at him in incomprehension, uncertain what he was asking. Still, he could not refuse the urgency in Javert's gaze. "Yes, whatever you wish."

In the next moment, he had to brace himself with his hand upon Javert's knee, for Javert had nearly overbalanced him in a sudden partial lunge, one hand clutching Chabouillet's hip and the other curling around Chabouillet's shoulder.

Javert pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Chabouillet's lips. It was a clumsy gesture, almost missing Chabouillet's mouth entirely, and yet the eagerness was intoxicating.

Chabouillet kissed him back and ran his tongue against Javert's swollen lower lip. He tasted salt and copper, as though Javert had bitten his cheek while muffling his cries. Chabouillet made a movement with his finger, pressing in all the way to his knuckle and swallowing down Javert's moan. Then he began to add a second slick finger, until Javert was all but sobbing into his mouth, wordless, desperate sounds mingled with gasps of Chabouillet's name.  

Chabouillet fumbled for the jar, almost knocking it over before his shaking hand could dip his fingers into it, for actually looking at the desk would involving both looking away from Javert and pausing in kissing, neither of which was acceptable at the moment.

He spread the liniment liberally over his prick; this time it was Javert who swallowed Chabouillet's groans as tiny sparks of pleasure ran up Chabouillet's spine at the stroke of his own hand upon his cock. At last he did pull his mouth away from Javert's and drew his head back a little so that he could watch Javert's face. He drew his fingers slowly from Javert. He ignored for the moment the faint frown this evoked. This time he gave no orders, just caught hold of Javert's knee and urged it a little higher as he moved closer. Enlightenment flashed across Javert's face and he shuddered, his prick twitching and brushing against Chabouillet's. His hair had come loose from its riband, falling haphazardly around his face, and Chabouillet gave in to the temptation to catch hold of a fistful of his hair and pull him down for one last kiss.

Javert’s hands tightened upon Chabouillet's hip and shoulder, his fingers digging into the flesh there. Chabouillet should tell him to loosen his grip, but the thought of tracing the marks Javert had left upon his skin and knowing Javert had been so out of control that he had actually left bruises was appealing.

He dropped his hand from Javert’s hair and braced himself against the desk, keeping the other hand steady upon Javert's knee. Then he thrust into Javert in a single slow movement that only halted once Javert could take no more of him. He had to pause then, his breath catching in his throat. He had forgotten how it felt, to take someone like this, the pressure and the heat and the way you could feel every tremor and hitch in the other man’s breath.

He was saying Javert's name, he realized distantly, once, and then twice, harshly, like an order. He’d also closed his eyes, something he hadn’t intended to do. Now he opened them, just in time to see Javert’s expression go slack with pleasure. Chabouillet stared at Javert’s features, struggling to memorize this moment and how Javert’s face looked wiped clean of everything except desire.

He found himself thinking of the others in the station-house who had overlooked Javert’s potential, and felt a queer sense of relief that they had been blind. They didn't know Javert, hadn't known him for years; they could never appreciate how singular this moment was.

Chabouillet had to move at that thought, had to thrust into Javert or else he would have spent without giving Javert even more satisfaction. They were short, shallow movements at first, then harder and deeper as Javert groaned and met his thrusts with ones of his own.

His hips ached and his back pinched in protest at the exertions-- he was too old for this, taking someone against a desk rather than in a more comfortable bed-- and yet Chabouillet would not, could not slow, not when every movement of his hips earned him a wordless moan from Javert's lips.

He reached out, took hold of Javert's cock and stroked it roughly. He dropped his gaze briefly from Javert's face to watch how Javert's hips stuttered and then moved increasingly frantically, thrusting first against Chabouillet's prick and then arching into his hand. 

"Monsieur Chabouillet." The voice did not sound like Javert's, hoarse and wrecked. "Monsieur-- please, please--" The last word caught in his throat and turned into a whine as he suddenly tightened around Chabouillet, his spend coating Chabouillet's hand. 

Chabouillet couldn't describe Javert's expression, sated and astonished and another half-dozen emotions he couldn't put a name to, only that it proved the tipping point. Chabouillet thrust once, twice, a third hard, desperate time and then spent as well. 

As he caught his breath, he realized that he'd all but collapsed against Javert and that the other man was bracing him, hands gentle upon him now. He slid from Javert and straightened with a wince. The urge to remark that he was indeed too old to be doing these things in his office came and then passed.

Instead he looked again at Javert, who was watching him. Already the earlier ease in Javert's face was disappearing, the familiar grim lines returning. Still, there was still a certain warmth that lingered in Javert's eyes, and he did not seem inclined to speak or move to gather up his clothes. 

Chabouillet found he didn't know what to say, his chest tight. The minutes afterwards had been inconsequential with the others he had initiated, for he had only known them a week at the most. They had cleaned themselves up and parted ways, nodding courteously enough at each other in the hallways. There had been no history. He hadn't known them and watched them rise to the rank of inspector, hadn't been their patron and secured them positions and then felt a vague sense of pride as they had succeeded beyond even his expectations. 

At last, he reached around Javert and drew a handkerchief from his desk drawer. "We should get cleaned up," he said, falling back upon tradition. He wiped at his hand, sticky with Javert's spend, and then made to clean both his and Javert's seed from Javert's skin.

Javert misunderstood his gesture and took the handkerchief with a muttered, "Thank you, monsieur."

Chabouillet watched Javert run the handkerchief down his length, wiping all trace of the encounter from his skin, and felt again the same strange tightness in his chest.

"I don't know where your riband went, but I have a spare one if you need a replacement," he said. It was as much as a verbal dance as they had started with, something inconsequential, and yet he could think of nothing else. His voice was hoarse, the words like sharp rocks, and he cleared his throat.   

"That is generous of you, monsieur, but there is no need. I shall find mine," Javert said. If his voice was equally damaged by all the bitten back sounds and groans, it still contained the familiar rigidness of his general speech. 

"Javert," Chabouillet said, and then stopped as Javert's gaze returned briefly to him, a questioning gleam in those dark eyes. He cleared his throat again, groping for words. "Remind me tomorrow to speak to you about the Allard murder. I thought you might help Morin with the case."

Javert's gaze flickered for a moment, then he nodded. "Of course, Monsieur Chabouillet." He straightened to his full height, stepping to the side and away from Chabouillet. "I shall get your handkerchief cleaned."

"Ah, there is no...." Chabouillet trailed off, recognizing Javert's stubborn look. "Very well." He watched as Javert moved over to his pile of clothes and began to dress with the same efficient movements as before. "Oh, one more thing. Could you tell Bonnet and Michel that I wish to see them in my office?"

Javert's hands did not pause upon his buttons. "Of course, monsieur." He slowly disappeared beneath his coat and collar, his features obscured once more. Dressed except for his hat and the riband, Javert returned to stand before Chabouillet's desk. It was only then that he hesitated, his eyebrows lowering and half-hiding his eyes. "Should I wait, monsieur, until you are ready?"

Chabouillet stared for a moment. Then he found his mouth twisting in amusement. "Ah, yes. Let me just get dressed first."

"Yes, monsieur," Javert said. His voice remained even and respectful, his expression severe and attentive, and yet Chabouillet thought he saw the faintest flicker of amusement in his mostly hidden eyes. Perhaps that was Chabouillet's imagination, however, for once he was fully dressed, Javert took up his hat and sketched out a polite bow, the same formality he used after every one of their meetings. The only hint to what had transpired was his mouth, still somewhat swollen. "I will see you tomorrow, monsieur."

"Good evening, Javert," Chabouillet said. 

"Good evening, monsieur." And then Javert was gone, the door shutting quietly behind his tall form. 

Chabouillet stared at the door for a long moment. Then he sank into his chair, grimacing as his back and the forming bruises twinged. A headache was beginning in his head, heavy and unpleasant. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and rubbed at his brow.

Well, Javert had slipped back into their old relationship easily enough, he told himself. The initiation had been pleasant, and now they would return to their roles as prefect's secretary and inspector. If the image of Javert undone and wracked by pleasure seemed to be one that did not want to leave the forefront of Chabouillet's mind quite as easily, well, perhaps it had been too long since Chabouillet had participated in an initiation.

He opened his eyes at the tentative knock. "Come in." 

The door opened a fraction, and Michel peered warily inside. The door opened wider and now Chabouillet could see Bonnet half-hiding behind Michel's shoulder. 

"You wished to see us, monsieur?" Bonnet asked.

Chabouillet smiled. It was not a particularly welcoming smile, judging by Michel's sudden pallor and Bonnet's wince, but his head was still pounding, his back still aching. He motioned them into the room.

"Gentlemen," he said, too pleasantly, and watched both men's expressions shift to the looks found on condemned men even as they obeyed and shut the door behind them. "I think you and I have several matters to discuss...."