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Candour and Constancy

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When Javert meets his patron again for the first time in years, his first thought is that M. Chabouillet has visibly aged. His second thought is that this change is most becoming. The way his patron's hair has gone grey at his temples, the lines around his eyes, which remain as ice-blue as ever –- it all lends to his air of dignity and power.

His third thought is that he is forgetting himself and his place. It is not for him to admire his superior in such a way, as if he were a mere object for Javert's greedy eyes to devour.

M. Chabouillet does not smile upon seeing him. He nods at his secretary, bidding him to close the door on his way out, then turns back to his paperwork. Javert remains still, back straight, his hat under his arm. He keeps his gaze right ahead, and so cannot avoid looking at M. Chabouillet's fine mahogany desk, behind which the Secretary of the Police is seated, reading through his documents.

Eventually, he puts away the papers and looks up. "Welcome back to Paris, Javert," he says. The sound of his name being spoken by that deep voice does not fail to send a thrill of pleasure through Javert's body; he imagines this is what a faithful dog must feel like when summoned by its master. "Your efforts in helping to arrest that false mayor have not passed by unnoticed."

Javert bows his head. "It is an honour to serve, Monsieur le Secrétaire."

"I must confess, I was surprised when I first received your letter regarding that suspicious character," M. Chabouillet says. "Accusing a superior of such wrongdoing -– it did not sound like you at all. In truth, I worried that something had affected your mind, a suspicion that was only strengthened when that man was arrested and taken for your convict. In the end, I am glad to have been wrong on this point."

Javert knows better than to smile with the glee that fills him: triumph at the thought of Valjean's capture, joy at M. Chabouillet's acknowledgement. It is almost enough to drown out that lingering shameful memory -– the memory of having stood at attention before another desk, confessing to wrongdoings that were not, in fact, wrongdoings.

"However..." And now M. Chabouillet looks at him sharply. "I believe it was the convict himself who presented the court in Arras with proof that they –- and you –- had been mistaken. That the man they had arrested was not the convict Jean Valjean, contrary to what you had stated."

At this, Javert's victory turns to ashes in his mouth. "Monsieur..."

His patron regards him with coolness. "You stated, and I quote, 'The man Champmathieu is beyond a doubt Jean Valjean.' You were quite certain in this belief of yours, as certain as you had been about the false mayor Madeleine. It was only thanks to a twist of fate that the truth was revealed at last, as the convict himself confessed -– driven, no doubt, by the desire to brag about his successful deceit. And why should he not brag? He fooled a whole town; and what is more, he fooled an agent of the police, an agent whom I personally have recommended –- my very own protégé!"

Javert is finding it difficult to breathe. He can sense M. Chabouillet's fury, simmering in his words, his voice, the set of his shoulders. Shame is unfurling within him, blended with desire -– the desire for his patron to set things right, to punish him like he should, to let Javert once more demonstrate his loyalty to him.

"You could easily have made fool out of me," Chabouillet says, getting to his feet. He approaches Javert as quietly as a tiger on the prowl, and it is all Javert can do not to tremble, whether with fear or eagerness or both. "But in the end, the convict was recaptured, and I know you played your part in that operation. For this reason, I am not dismissing you from my service -– yet. You will be allowed to make reparations."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Javert says. It is all he can do not to lick his lips.

It is an old understanding between them; it has been years since last time. And yet, as he sinks to his knees, as his hands reverently unfasten M. Chabouillet's trousers, drawing out his large member, Javert's blood is quickening as if he were still a young man -– as if he were still the guard kneeling before his new patron, a visiting magistrate from Paris, on that fateful night in Toulon, half a lifetime ago.

M. Chabouillet has aged, and so has Javert himself, but this –- his mouth on his patron's hard flesh, his patron's guiding hand on his head -– will always be new and exhilarating.

He licks around the head, teasing with his tongue before taking him into his mouth slowly, the way he knows M. Chabouillet likes. When his patron lets out a low groan, his hand fisting itself in Javert's hair, triumph fills him again, along with gratitude.

"So good," M. Chabouillet mutters, voice rough. Javert works him with his mouth, careful to keep his teeth away. "You were always so good at this, my wolf-hound."

The endearment sends shivers down his spine; his own prick throbs hard in his trousers. He is careful not to move, swallowing M. Chabouillet down inch by inch, his throat relaxing to allow for the intrusion. He has never forgotten how to do it.

"Already as a young man you were good at this," M. Chabouillet whispers. "Learned it in Toulon, didn't you? I wonder..." The hand tightens its grip in Javert's hair for a moment, causing a sharp sting of pain. "Did you practice on your convicts?"

The question catches Javert off-guard; he gives a start, wanting to protest, forgetting that he is unable to speak. M. Chabouillet's hand keeps him in place; Javert can do nothing but cling to him, allowing his patron to set the rhythm, his own blood coursing hotly through his veins.

"Perhaps that's why you were so taken with this mayor," M. Chabouillet grunts, pulling back a little and pushing in. "Perhaps the whole reason why he reminded you of your convict was that you wanted to get on your knees before him, like this. Was that it?"

Shameful heat surges through Javert at these words. To think M. Chabouillet can believe such a thing of him is terrible enough. But the words themselves are stirring something within him, the remnants of obscene fantasies mostly forgotten. In a flash, he pictures it: himself on his knees, the convict's cock hard in his mouth, thrusting into him with relish the way his patron is making use of him now.

The very notion is taboo -- just as taboo as the notion of an agent of the police abasing himself in front of a convict, asking to be dismissed.

"And perhaps," M. Chabouillet continues as he fucks Javert's mouth and throat, his voice growing ever harsher along with his movements, "perhaps that's why you decided the other man was Jean Valjean, after all. Because when they brought you in front of that criminal Champmathieu, you didn't recognise his face, oh no. But perhaps he had a big cock. Perhaps he had a big fat cock that you got on your knees for, just like you did for that convict back in the bagne, and perhaps that was good enough for you, perhaps that was all you wanted, a big convict cock in your mouth or in your arse, despite everything I have done for you, despite everything I have given you –-"

At the last minute, his patron pulls out, spilling himself on Javert's face with a curse. Javert manages to keep his balance, his hands on his patron's hips, even as he himself shudders in answering relief, unable to resist the call of M. Chabouillet's climax.

He pants harshly, his throat sore. Seed is dripping from his cheeks and chin; there is a wet stain on his trousers, but that is the least of his worries. Despite himself, he looks up, seeking M. Chabouillet's eyes, fearing what he might see there: anger still? Or worse, disappointment?

But now Chabouillet's icy eyes are almost mild. He allows Javert to carefully tuck him back into his trousers, and says nothing as Javert gets out his handkerchief and wipes his face clean. Indeed, when Javert is done, M. Chabouillet rests his hand on his head again –- gently this time.

"Well done, my wolf-hound," his patron says, sounding tired now. "I can tell you are as faithful as ever. Do not give me cause to doubt you again."

Again, Javert's breast swells with triumph and gratitude both. "I won't, Monsieur," he replies.

Men do not change. Both he and M. Chabouillet have aged, but they both remain the same, and so does what exists between them: that unbreakable bond between master and servant, forged in obedience, strengthened by rectitude. His patron might some day dismiss him from his service, but what the bond represents cannot be undone; Javert will respect it until the day he dies.