Javert had felt no fear when he offered himself for this duty.
He knew the area well. He knew these kids playing at revolution. They had been observing them for a while already, and they had been known trouble-makers with their talk of protest, which to him was little more than slang for rioting and property damage. He had also lived here for many years and was certain that he would be able to blend in. A lifetime spent watching the criminal dregs on the streets had given him a good idea of what these people might be up to.
Javert had not been afraid when he had joined the little uprising. He was taking a risk, but one that needed to be taken to save the lives of others. He had not even been afraid when one of the street brats that were a constant terror to the shop owners here had revealed his true identity.
But he was afraid now. He was alone in a room with the leader of this farce of a revolution, a young man whose burning gaze he met with scorn. This was the fire of this group's revolution – this Enjolras with his artfully disarrayed hair and carefully calculated Che style. How easy it had proved to stir the criminal underbelly of the town! Impassioned speeches and a red beret, that was what it had taken. Yes, that was truly all it was, that was what revolution meant to these kids: posters on the wall and red berets on their heads and slogans typed on their MacBooks. And the leader of the rabble: Enjolras, the self-styled prophet, who thought he was above the law, when the law was all that held society together.
At first, when the police began to pay attention to this group of radicals, Javert had thought Enjolras a boy, so led astray by his own words that he would talk the crowds into a fever, have them baying for blood and destruction, until in the end he, like all prophets, would willingly go into a death he had summoned himself by his own unlawful actions.
That was what he had expected to find here. And that was who that man had been, when Javert had pretended to be a volunteer for their cause. But here, in this small room, where the windows were covered with planks and the furniture gone to build their barricades, save for a desk and a few rickety chairs; here the fire in the man's eyes seemed different. Once more Javert reminded himself that this was but another boy led by delusions of grandeur, when this was no revolution but simple, willful destruction and rioting. And yet, here he seemed filled by a restless energy that could not be contained by the small room, and was gazing at him with a focus that, for the first time in years, made Javert straighten and breathe shallowly with an almost forgotten emotion: fear.
There was a heat in the man's eyes that did not belong here. It was anger, Javert told himself, but Enjolras' face was perfectly calm as he slowly came closer.
“You are a spy,” Enjolras said, carrying himself with a poise that told Javert that he had chosen the iconicity of his outfit with thoughtful deliberation. Here was a man who thought himself military strategist and PR expert at once. It was not unsuccessful, Javert had to admit to himself. There was an air to him of something larger than life – a passion he managed to rouse in the crowd that went beyond the gang leaders and rioters Javert had seen in his life. What a waste. The boy might have made it far in Hollywood. How much safer to preach from the cover of a magazine about veganism, or Scientology, or wars that would never touch his own home?
But Enjolras had made his choice, and as a criminal, he was a dangerous one. So Javert's superiors had decided. Soon enough, the SWAT teams would move in and deal with this problem, and in the aftermath, order would be restored even in this place where the dregs of society thought to hide.
Javert chose to stay silent. A representative of the law could not be a spy; he had, in fact, every right to be here. But then, this arrogant ringleader would know that.
“A spy,” Enjolras continued, and the heat in his eyes grew in intensity. Javert did not know what the man wanted with him. They had not killed him – the only thing he was good for was as a hostage, now. Not that it would help them much. There had to be snipers already in position to take Enjolras out once he left the building.
“You don't deny it. It's all right if you don't want to talk. We know who you are now, Inspector Javert. You think this is a riot; I tell you, this is war. This is revolution. Even if we don't live to see the morning, right here, right now, you stand in a place of freedom, a true republic of equals. You have no rights here. In this place, you are the enemy of the state.”
Javert shook his head at Enjolras' words with a snort of disbelief. Just as he had expected. Now there would be an hour of preaching. People like him always wanted their slogans to survive them. As if he'd give him the satisfaction to speak them into a camera later on. No. Best if they'd shoot the journalists along with these rioters.
"I will have to search you," Enjolras said after a moment, when it became obvious that Javert thought the conversation ended. "You might have something on you that we can use. Or maybe they've bugged you. In any case, it's necessary."
Javert bit back a tired laugh. These boys had seen too many movies. "I have no idea what you think you'll find," he said, shifting a little. But no; his papers were safe. Even if they found them -- no, he told himself quickly, turning his head away from the approaching man to hide the sudden color on his face. Enjolras would not find them. Impossible. No need to even contemplate it.
"I'll be the judge of that."
Javert stiffened when Enjolras was finally close enough to rest a hand on him with casual arrogance. "The ropes are sturdy; don't struggle. You'll only make it worse. This can be over quickly if you cooperate." Enjolras was very close now. Javert did not grace him with an answer, but even so, he could hear his own heartbeat echo in his ears at the unsettling sensation of breath stirring his hair, warm air being exhaled against his ear.
Javert clenched his teeth and looked down. Enjolras patted him down with quick efficiency; but then, other revolutionaries had done that earlier, when they had brought him in here. There was nothing left in his pockets.
Enjolras gave him a considering look. "You are determined to keep your secrets?"
Javert snorted again. "You don't know anything," he said with deep derision, and that was when Enjolras' eyes gained further heat. He fell silent, uncomfortable now, but too proud to speak. Enjolras would give up soon enough, he told himself. Either Enjolras would shoot him, or the snipers would get him and a SWAT team would free him.
And then Enjolras' hand – the hand that had rested innocently on his shoulder so far – turned rough and grabbed a fistful of hair with sudden, surprising strength. Javert made a breathless sound, more from surprise than pain, as he found himself pushed down over a table. Then, when he wanted to straighten with furious indignity, he felt the barrel of a gun pressed to his neck. The metal was as cold as Enjolras' voice when he spoke.
"Don't move; I told you what would happen. You had your chance. You betrayed us. You're a spy. And this is how you'll be treated. Don't move, and nothing will happen to you."
Javert had to bite back laughter this time. Oh yes. It was all too apparent that these kids had learned their ideas of rioting from movies – and that was how this was going to end as well. As in any good movie, justice would prevail; the law would be restored. He'd play along as long as he had to, he told himself, even when Enjolras produced handcuffs to chain his legs to the table. For his hands, he used rope and tied it tightly enough to startle a gasp out of him. For once, Javert's derisive laughter died in his throat when the knots were pulled even tighter, enough to chafe against his skin.
"When will they attack?" Enjolras asked and moved back into position behind him. Javert could not see him now, save as a threatening presence behind him in the corner of his eyes. Not bad, he thought; yes, they had picked up a few useful things from movies after all.
"Are we playing good cop, bad cop now? But you're alone," he said, and then Enjolras put away his gun and stepped closer, calmly reaching around him to undo his belt. Javert fell silent. It did not mean anything, he told himself, though it made him queasy when his belt was opened and slowly pulled free. And yet, they stripped prisoners to search them; this was to be expected. Enjolras just repeated what he had seen happen in movies. And very soon, he would run out of ideas.
Nevertheless, Javert could not help but feel his apprehension grow when his trousers were opened, and then pulled down as far as possible.
He clenched his jaw. Enjolras stood in silence for a long moment, while Javert was uncomfortably aware that he was tied to a table, bent over and forced into a humiliating position, his underwear exposed.
And then Enjolras' hands took hold of that as well, and Javert gasped before he could bite his lip. Enjolras must have heard nevertheless.
"How many? Where are the snipers?"
Javert stared at the rough wood of the table. A heartbeat of silence, then his underwear was pulled down as well. He made no sound this time, although he shivered slightly at the sensation of air against his buttocks.
It was embarrassing. It was humiliating. Enjolras did not even talk now, but he could feel the weight of his gaze, imagined him take in the shape of his ass, the sack that hung free, his cock small and shriveled up from terror. It meant nothing, he told himself again. Enjolras wanted to humiliate him. That was all. And yet – this was not what he had expected when they had dragged him into the small room.
He had been prepared for priggish lectures about freedom. He had even been prepared for a beating, for execution -- but he hadn't thought he'd wind up alone in a room with this mad prophet with his burning eyes, who seemed less interested in the information he asked for, and more interested in looking at him with that heated gaze. Enjolras looked at him as though Javert was not simply a servant who did the will of the state, but some rare asset to his cause, if he could only bend him to his will.
“Then I will have to search you. Remember that it was your choice,” Enjolras said, and there wasn't even any gloating in his voice, just that disconcerting heat that made something inside Javert tighten and clench up.
He gritted his teeth. He would not give him the satisfaction of showing fear. He didn't know anything anyway. He didn't know what Enjolras expected; it wasn't like a simple inspector knew what anti-riot strategies the SWAT teams would employ. They had called in specialists for this crisis, people from the capitol who would have arrived in sleek, black vans and who even now were sitting in the crisis room surrounded by screen after screen of news and police helicopter footage. What little he knew wouldn’t save a single of these rioters, when snipers had to be in position already. Even so, he was determined not to give the little information he had away.
There was a sound at last. He gritted his teeth again as a shudder ran through him. It was a wet sound, an obscene squelch; was Enjolras--
His question was answered when his ass was spread; the fingers that touch his hole were wet and slick.
“I assume you've watched the same movies I have, Inspector.” Enjolras' voice was cold. Javert imagined his hot, dark eyes lingering there and very nearly made a panicked sound. This couldn't be, he told himself again, forcing himself to breathe slowly. No, this was just a threat, a game.
And then it wasn't. Enjolras' fingers weren’t cold at all when he was penetrated; Javert clenched instinctively against the humiliating intrusion, but the fingers were lubed up well enough that two of them slid into him, and he couldn't offer any resistance save pant and squirm and clench helplessly around them.
“It's nothing personal. Simply a necessary precaution.”
A low sound was dragged from him after all when those fingers pushed deeper into him. He knew Enjolras was lying. Nothing in his life had ever felt this personal. He was helpless; Enjolras' hot, strong fingers were inside him, where he was vulnerable, exploring the inside of him with casual curiosity while all he could do was grit his teeth and close his eyes and pant against the rough, dirty surface of the old table.
Enjolras' other hand rubbed against the stretched, aching skin of his hole. It was impossible to take more, Javert thought with furious despair, it just wasn’t possible, please don't let him--
There was more of the cold slickness, and then another finger. This time he groaned as his hole spasmed around the intrusion. The ache was hot, the tight muscle burning as he was opened wider and wider, and there was no way for his aching body to resist but simply to yield to the demands of that merciless hand.
The fingers pushed deeper inside. With shame he realized that his cock throbbed full and hard beneath him, squeezed painfully against the table, even though involuntary tears had sprung up in the corners of his eyes from the stretch.
It was humiliating; he couldn't bear it, to be touched inside like this, the boy had no right--
And then Enjolras made a triumphant sound as his fingers stirred something that had so far rested heavy and alien within him, and Javert felt his face burn with shame.
There was no reason for shame, he told himself again; it was needed, he needed identification, in case they killed him, and he could not simply carry his papers in a pocket. But Enjolras' fingers had found the slim metal container inside him, and by grasping for it, drove it deeper into him. Javert's toes curled and he gasped with shocked need when it pressed against a spot within, rubbed over it again and again as Enjolras tried to reach for it.
“There,” Enjolras said. His voice was a murmur; there was a strange, pleased warmth in it now. “There, Inspector; you see why this was necessary. I'm sorry, but you must see I have no choice here.”
For a moment, Javert fought against the ropes that bound his hands to the table, but all he achieved was to make the rope tighten further, and at last he had to give up. He relaxed against the table in defeat; Enjolras used the chance to drive his utter helplessness home by moving his fingers within him, rubbing against his prostate to force another groan from him.
He couldn't bear it, he couldn't – Javert panted, aching for a breath that wouldn't come because his chest was tight, filled with fire, white-hot heat running up his spine whenever that damned rioter's fingers wriggled within him. Javert wondered suddenly if they had cameras. Maybe it was blackmail; maybe they thought the government wouldn't want photos released to the public of a police officer as he was--
Another groan; this time he could feel how his hips rose up of their own volition, and Enjolras' fingers slid in further, opening him up, prodding the metal capsule again so that it slid even deeper inside him. His legs were trembling. Again he thought of Enjolras' eyes on him there, watching him take those fingers while he moaned for it. Sickness twisted in his stomach; his cock throbbed and ached as it was squeezed against the table every time he moved.
“It's hard to get hold of it.”
He couldn't even hate Enjolras for the cool superiority in his voice. The shame was unbearable; Javert didn't even know what was worse: the intrusion, or the thought of his eyes watching.
“I'm sorry, Inspector. I'll try not to make it too uncomfortable for you.”
Javert couldn't breathe when he felt more of the cold lube squeezed against his stretched hole. There was a lot of it; God, was that boy drenching his entire hand--
His heart stopped beating for a second. Then Enjolras pressed against him again, and there was so much slickness that his hole burned and tightened with instinctive fear against the cruel fingers that held it spread open, but Enjolras had used enough lube that his body could not defend itself against the hand that breached him. Deeper and deeper Enjolras went; Javert squeezed his eyes shut, trembling, forced open impossibly wide until at last he could feel the widest part of Enjolras' hand against the sore muscle, slick knuckles pushing with gentle, unyielding pressure and something inside him twisted with fear. He couldn’t take this; he couldn't bear this; not the man's hand inside him – and then Enjolras' other hand came to rest on the small of his back, stroking there in reassurance, and he pressed harder. Javert felt his hole forced to stretch impossibly wide, something large and hot and frightening pushing into him, filling him with terrifying heat from the inside while his hole tried to close again and couldn't, spasming around the boy's wrist in helpless agony.
“There. Don't resist, I'm already inside you.” Enjolras' voice was breathless. At last the commanding calm was gone. Now there was heat in his words – the same heat that was within him. Enjolras' finger burned as they touched him from the inside. Javert couldn't bear it, to be touched there, to have his body turned inside out, but he couldn't tighten his hole anymore, could only clench around the boy's wrist to feel how wide open he was, and then there was pressure again. Tears sprang up in his eyes as those unbearably warm fingers moved within him where there should be no movement, where there should be no touch, where he was now conquered and claimed and torn open and sullied by this mad prophet.
He could feel the movement of the fingers as they searched within him, touching and grasping and exploring the inside of his body. Terrified sounds kept escaping him. Javert could feel the fingers prod the small metal container inside him again, jarring it so that he gasped with shock when it was pushed yet deeper inside, then the burn of his hole when Enjolras pressed deeper as well, fingers warm and alive and twisting within him until at last they clenched around the metal capsule.
Javert made a helpless sound. His body was wet with sweat; he could feel his shirt clinging to his body. A shudder ran through him at the sensation of that fist slowly moving within him now. Enjolras moved carefully – but he did not simply pull out, now that he had found what he had searched for. Instead, he leaned a little closer, keeping Javert spread and impaled on his arm, and used his other hand to rub Javert's back in what had to be a mockery of comfort. Javert drew in a sharp breath when Enjolras' fist pulled further back, then pressed against his bladder from the inside, so that his hard cock ached with the sudden, painful need to piss. A tormented whine escaped him and he squirmed, worked himself further back onto Enjolras' arm just to escape that threatening humiliation when the pressure did not relent, and then he panted, overcome and exhausted, resting his forehead against the table while he felt cold sweat drip down his nape.
“When will they attack?” Enjolras said. Javert could only gasp for breath.
There was a pause. Then the fist drove deeper into him, clutched around that tiny cache that held his papers, so slowly that he could not even say whether it was agony or ecstasy to be penetrated so completely. Enjolras' hand was hot, and he gasped for breath, could not even feel shame anymore when he couldn't speak, could only release a whimper as his body shuddered warm and open around this alien invasion within him.
“When will they attack?” Enjolras asked again. Javert moaned, tried to raise his ass up higher when Enjolras pulled his arm nearly all the way back, fingers still clenched to a fist so that his knuckles dragged in a slow, unbearable massage against his prostate.
“Please,” Javert gasped at last. He was burning inside, pulling helplessly at the rope that held his arms bound while he pushed back against Enjolras' fist, wanting it there, needing it there.
Enjolras pulled back further, until Javert could feel the terrifying, solid bulk of his fist rest against the rim of his hole from the inside. He moaned; his calves burned as he tried to raise his ass even higher, his hole strangely loose now around Enjolras' wrist after he had been forced to take half his arm.
“How many snipers? Where are they placed?” Enjolras pushed back inside him, and a sob broke free when he ground his knuckles against Javert's prostate, again and again, relentless, until the electric ecstasy turned into something that was very nearly pain.
Javert panted for breath, whimpering now every time that fist rocked into him to grind against his prostate with merciless strength and precision. His cock was sore, squeezed so tightly between his stomach and the table that he thought there had to be bruises, and he didn't even care about the pain anymore but welcomed it, stretched and vibrating with a sensation that seemed impossible to bear as Enjolras proceeded to turn him inside out without effort.
“Soon,” he gasped at last when once more that fist was driven inside, filling him so deeply that he couldn't breathe, could only clench and arch in obedient, terrified pleasure as Enjolras turned him into a marionette and plucked at his raw nerves like strings. “Please. Please. They'll attack soon.”
Enjolras' hand slowly drew back, then pushed inside once more, again, again, rubbing his prostate with such unbearable, precise strength that he was crying long before climax washed over him with frightening intensity.
He couldn't stop coming, shaking for long, breathless moments in horror and fear as his cock pulsed endlessly with agonized pleasure. Inside he was all yielding heat now, clinging to Enjolras' arm, and when Enjolras pulled out, he moaned in terror at the emptiness where before that nearly inhuman fire had filled him.
Wetness had spread beneath him; he was resting in a puddle of his own come, and he couldn't bear to think now of how it would look when they came to rescue him. When they came to retrieve his corpse, he told himself, because it was better to face the truth of his situation. Once they knew who he was, maybe they'd leave the details out of the report – but he knew the chief would like that spin on things: undercover cop raped and tortured, then killed by rioters. Javert couldn't bear the thought of his photograph beneath that headline.
He clenched his jaw, tried to turn his face away when Enjolras came to stand near his head. There was a bulge at the front of his trousers, and that was almost reassuring – he was no statue, then; there had been reason behind the torment of him. A sadist, a psychopath, like so many men who were intent on climbing the lonely road to glory – but still a man, with the desires of a man.
Javert breathed more easily to know that he had been right all along. This backyard prophet with his burning eyes was no better than the scum they put behind bars any given day of the year. Enjolras' time would come – soon enough, he thought with grim determination as he watched how Enjolras opened the small capsule, and rolled open the papers that declared him one Inspector Javert of the Police, an agent of the government. A spy. A spy this mad prophet would certainly rather execute than use as a hostage. This madman liked his games of rebellion, and his pretensions of noble sacrifice.
Javert had known many like him. He'd seen them rise and fall: students, workers, criminals, every now and then a politician. There was a sickness in mankind, an inability to accept law and order, a greed for rebellion. In the end, they were all the same when they rested on the ground with unseeing eyes, streets red with blood, or when they yelled obscenities when they were forced into the prison van at last.
No. There was nothing special about this king of student radicals. In the end, they were all the same. In the end, all they ever brought was death for followers and law-abiding citizens alike.
This one would be no different, Javert told himself, while eyes that smoldered with an inexplicable fire held his own.
This man, Javert admitted to himself as he lay shivering in a puddle of his own come, stretched and sore and vulnerable, was the first who had ever made him afraid.
At last it was he who had to avert his eyes.