Chapter Text
If there were any truth in the universe it was within the power of Inspector Javert to find it. It was as simple as that. A statement of fact. He had the eyes of a tiger and the nose of a wolf. He had a savage hunger, a salivating, monstrous desire in him beyond all else that had been tamed, through much suffering and self-sacrifice, to bend only towards the upholding of law and law’s ineffable ability to define truth and reality. He had turned this fire, this chained animal passion, on the one man to ever defy him and – by proxy- to have defied the law- in the most heinous and hideous way imaginable. This devil had not only broken and entered to steal bread, but in an act of horrendous defiance, had refused to take responsibility for his act: attempting to escape Toulon prison multiple times. He had, by the devil’s intervention, succeeded and, like the thief he was, fled into the night. It had come down to Javert to pursue him. After all, someone had to. A man so dangerous could not be allowed to freely roam the streets, and so Javert had committed himself wholeheartedly, as only a man who lived and breathed justice could, to the return of this devil to his rightful place in prison.
When dealing with these devils it came to pass that even angels must behave as sinners and so, even Javert, with his immovable wooden heart and his infallible love of honesty, came to produce both a Tinder and Grindr account. Of course, as a proud virgin, he had not known what either of these things were but sacrifices had to be made. He had given his body to the law, as did a nun to God, and if the law required him to briefly prostitute it to the internet then it was a guilt he would be willing to make penance for.
The first step was a psychological profile-building exercise. His account must appeal above all else to Valjean’s twisted psyche. That meant several things: That Javert must lie about the passions in his heart; that he must commit those falsehoods to phone screen; and that he must withhold any loathing he felt for those who responded positively to him.
His account went as such
"Don't talk to me until after I've eaten my bread. ACAB. I love to steal."
It was of course agony and he gnashed his teeth and burned red with loathing at every word but wrote them all the same and then posed shirtless in front of a mirror and took a neck-down photograph. In honour of the fearsome stalking beast, he signed his account, “Tiger.” Vague enough that Valjean wouldn’t recognise him (after all if you were to see Javert your automatic assumption would be that if he were to be any animal it would be a wolf-dog) but predatory and cool enough to attract dangerous men.
Then of course came the true hardship. Scrolling endlessly through and liking older muscular men’s accounts. Only those without face photos of course. And then following up those likes with a brief message: “Chest pics?”
Thankfully most of these musclebound imbeciles were egotistical enough to send him what was requested and, when he had carefully scoured these photos for signs of prison tattoos or tattoo removal, he then unliked the accounts. It was a fruitless and spiritually unrewarding activity but he could do it during breakfast, lunch, in the car (while parked,) on the toilet, and in bed of an evening and so he remained heroically stoic. (And if Javert ever wept at the indignity of his self-sacrifice he never let anyone see it.)
Then came the fateful day on which all of his shirtless photographs from different angles and tireless messaging of older men for pictures of their exposed pectorals came to fruition. A gentleman, no doubt wishing to disguise his ill intent, messaged him:
“Please do not let yourself be corrupted by the low state you find your life in. There are those with kindness in their hearts still who would rather give to you than allow your soul to be stained by the sin of theft.”
Something in Javert twitched.
The stranger continued:
“Let me know your address and give me a list of shopping you require and I will have it delivered to you.”
It twitched again. Javert flicked onto the account with a snarl: Faithful Hermit, 48. 50 miles away.
A weak sweat began to gather on Javert’s brow and upper lip and he wiped it away with a trembling hand. With a determined finger he typed,
“Chest pics?”
He chewed his nails feverishly, eyes eating ravenously at the little dots that traced along the bottom of the screen.
Faithful Hermit is typing…
Typing! Typing! It was not false words that Javert desired but photos of Valjean’s tremendously meaty and bulging chest!
“I don’t know if I feel comfortable sending you a photo of my chest. I am rather shy.”
Javert leapt from his chair with a roar, barely holding onto his phone. How dare he! Attempting to foil Javert at every turn! He would have no more. He calmed himself and sat,
“I will send you first. Don’t be shy-” Javert paused, what would a lascivious and vile creature say to tempt another lascivious and vile creature? He wracked his brain. Dragged it over hot coals. It had to be something tactless and without class.
“- I bet you are really handsome.” He grinned wolfishly at his success and rose again to rake through his wardrobe to find the best fitting trousers he owned. Not best fitting to the situation but best fitted to his muscular legs and small waist (he did after all do a lot of walking and cycling.) Then he pulled them high up his waist, turned on the angled lamp and set up the mirror opposite the bed, angled so that his face wouldn’t show. He climbed onto the bed, sitting on his knees and attempted to take a photo that best showed his thighs but grew irritated by the hairless of expanse of his back on show (a little spotty and very pale) and so he stood instead, placing one knee of the bed and a hand on his hip to flex his arms a little. Better. He had to admit, in a moment of little modesty, that he did have a shapely rear and nice broad shoulders. He scrolled through the photos until he found the best one and sent it, hunching back into his seat, head jutting eagerly to his phone screen. He waited, tongue flicking out to lick his lips in eager expectation.
Faithful Hermit is typing…
Faithful Hermit is typing….
“You are a very handsome young man.”
Javert cursed them cursed his impatience as the words appeared again.
Faithful Hermit is typing…
“If I agree to send you a photograph of my chest, will you make me a promise?”
Yes! Anything! Javert thought, he had sold his soul this far why no further? He was committed to the chase!
“If I send you a photograph of my bare chest, I only ask that you repent for your sin of theft and turn your mind away from such activities.”
“Sure,” Javert replied, “And you are right: I am young and fit and know what it is I am looking for. Send me the photo.”
He shoved his newly chewed nails back into his mouth trembling in expectation, skin tingling, sweat once more prickling his upper lip. There was another long pause and Javert had to remind his racing heart that he indeed had taken several minutes to prepare his photograph and that the wait did not guarantee failure. He leapt up with a fearsome snarl of success when the picture flicked onto the screen then clicked and zoomed in rapidly, tongue caught between his teeth. It was indeed a magnificent chest, flexing, and mounted with curly white hair. Flushed pink and dewed with sweat… He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and swallowed. And there, on the upper right and side- he was sure of it!- the bottom half of a row of numbers! He leapt again, springing into the air like a gazelle, and bared his teeth to the world in manic delight.
“Do you have a tattoo?” He typed, heart in his mouth.
There was a pause.
Faithful Hermit is typing…
Faithful Hermit is typing…
Javert twitched and trembled.
Faithful Hermit is typing…
“Forgive me for taking so long to reply, I was unsure how to respond and rewrote my reply several times. I fear I do, but only as a reminder of my less respectable past.”
Now Javert howled like a wolf, like the beast he was. He leapt upon the bed and leapt down from it to bang his hands upon the wardrobe and snarl and jeer at the face in the mirror, his dark hooded eyes twinkly with ferocious delight. He had his quarry! At last, he had his prey! And as he opened up the photo again, he swore he could almost smell the sweat that glistened on the criminal’s mountainous chest.
“Meet me.” He typed
“Can we not speak first? Get to know each other?”
Javert scoffed,
“You message younger men with shirtless photographs as their icons to talk?”
There was a pause and a thrill of fear passed through Javert that he may have overplayed his hand.
“You are right,” Faithful Hermit (haha!) replied, “It is disingenuous of me to pretend that it was not your body that first attracted me to your profile. However, I am a single father with few friends and I value conversation highly. I would like to get to know the mind that attends this handsome body.”
Javert trembled again and then dropped himself into his chair with a perturbed grunt.
“What do you want to know?”
“What do you do?”
“I work for the government.”
“And what do you do for fun?”
“I pursue men.”
There was another pause and then another horrendously judgemental message appeared on Javert’s phone from that hideous phony ‘Faithful Hermit’.
“I understand that you are a young man with desires but surely you must have some identity beyond the usages of your body?”
Javert bared his teeth again, this time in frustration, and flicked his long fringe from his eyes,
“Yes, I do. But my desires tonight are not for the intellectual. I wish to meet you. Promptly.” He paused. Perhaps a little honesty would put the practiced liar off-kilter, “I am a man with the heart of an animal. Tonight, I desire only to hunt.”
There was another pause.
“You remind me very much of someone.”
Faithful Hermit is typing…
“I must admit that you have an enigmatic charisma.”
‘Don’t bullshit me,' Javert thought, rolling his eyes. And who else could Valjean be alluding to? Another criminal he had dallied with in prison no doubt… but then surely Javert would have known. He had kept his eyes on Valjean in prison with only the level of attentiveness such a devious criminal required and he had never witnessed any salacious activity. He would have remembered. Still, it was his duty to keep these thoughts to himself if he were to deceive the most conniving and experienced liar himself.
“Meet me.” He typed, moving on to chew his thumbnail. He had tried painting them with that foul-tasting nail varnish but he had only ended up using chewing them as a sort of self-punishment.
“Where?”
“Your place,” Javert replied. The street lamps outside of his window had blinked into life and a soft glow of yellow light took the strain from the single desk lamp that had been lighting his bedroom.
“I am afraid I am not comfortable doing so,”
Javert cursed out loud, then soothed himself with a hiss and waited for the next message.
“There is a café open late on the corner of Rue Saint-Fulbert, will you meet me there?”
He didn’t know it but he could Google it. No task was too great in the pursuit of his prey.
“Yes.”
“How will I recognise you?”
A wicked toothy smile spread across Javert’s face in slow abandon,
“You will recognise me.”