I hate the title, but the story's good.
It occurred to Javert that Jean Valjean had fallen back into his old habits. After the disaster of the revolution and the unexpected – even alarming – mercy from Valjean, and after Javert had repaid this mercy to draw their relentless spar even, he'd thought the old miscreant had really changed his ways. Apparently, this wasn't so.
Javert's suspicions had begun when he realized that he was running out of bread much faster than usual. Eventually, he found an unmistakable correlation between disappearing bread and Jean Valjean's frequent visits. They had seemed innocent enough: the two talked about their mundane activities and minor concerns, which – with enough wine – transformed into heated disputes about morality and civil duty. What with Javert's bread vanishing into thin air, he thought it irritating that Valjean still insisted with such confidence that intentions of benevolence were more important than upright legal actions. It was obvious that nineteen years of serving the state had made no impression on him, and it aggravated Javert to no end.
So, he did what he had to. No delinquent – even one who was something of a friend – was going to get away with taking bread from Inspector Javert! His course of action was to simply move his bread somewhere else. He was certain that Valjean would catch his insinuation and stop disrespecting the basic laws of humanity and Javert himself.
He was regrettably wrong. No matter how many times he hid the bread, and no matter how obscure his hiding place, that thief always found it, and took it upon himself to relieve Javert of a piece of bread.
Aside from this issue, Valjean's visits were just as commonplace as always. Neither of them ever spoke of this new skirmish, but they didn't have to. They both knew who was winning, though Javert was determined to change that. The matter remained one only acknowledged through furious glares and missing bread, until Jean Valjean took his game a bit further.
It was looking to be an ordinary, pleasant day for Javert, when he stepped into his kitchen and into a startling scene. The table in the center of the room was laden with a ridiculously large pile of stale bread. Javert stormed over to the table and snatched up a paper sitting next to the bread.
"Inspector," it read, in what Javert recognized to be Valjean's hand, "This proves I didn't steal your bread. It was merely on a loan."
Javert ripped the note in half, strode over to his desk, and wrote his own message.
"24601 (Javert didn't think a base criminal deserved any better term of address):
Your insolence appalls me. It appears that thieving is little more than a joke to you. I cannot believe that you further had the audacity to trespass on the property I pay for without my knowledge or permission. It would be very easy for me to get you arrested for this, and, truthfully, you deserve that retribution. If you do not start to take our France's laws more seriously, you may end up back in prison. We don't want that, do we, Jean Valjean?
-Inspector Javert"
He folded the paper containing his irate missive, threw on his coat, and – with one last withering glance at the 'gift' on the table – left to do his daily duty of upholding the laws of Paris.
Jean Valjean was flummoxed when he received Javert's response to his practical joke. He hadn't meant ill. It was merely a jest, a game, used as a lighthearted means to ease the tension left over from their shaky past. He'd gone about it wrong, it seemed. Javert had perceived a personal insult in the situation. It troubled Valjean, and he feared for their amity. He would have to somehow make amends, and soon.
It was that same evening that Javert returned to his home and was met by a surprisingly clean table. Earlier in the day he'd been at a loss for what to do with the stale, stolen bread and had abandoned it in its place on the table, still stewing in anger. Now, not a crumb remained. The only item on the table was indeed a loaf of bread, but it was fresh and in one piece, which said more than any loaf of bread Javert had been lucky enough to possess in the past few months – thanks to a certain ex-convict. Said offender was seated at the table, an apologetic smile on his face.
When Javert spoke, his tone was cold. "You picked my lock twice in one day." He accused, his eyebrows raised to say 'now, don't you feel sorry, Jean Valjean?'.
"Yes. I had some business to take care of."
"Business?" He was finding it rather difficult to keep the vehemence out of his voice. "Well, Monsieur, I don't recall granting you the right to do any sort of business in my house." He spat.
"I know. I thought it would be best if I could repay you in person." He gestured to the loaf of bread.
"I think your payment runs short, Monsieur." Javert said scathingly. "Four more loaves would be necessary to fully make up for what you took from me."
"Perhaps I can request forgiveness without more bread." He stood, picking up the bread, and handed it to Javert. "Here."
Then Jean Valjean kissed him.
It was barely anything but a brushing of lips, but it was definitely intentional. It had little to no romance or passion implicated, but it was a kiss nonetheless, and it shocked Javert into silence.
"Have a nice evening, Inspector."
Just like that, he was gone, before Javert could find his voice. He almost wanted to call him back, if only to reprimand him for being so impertinent. At the same time, he knew that if Valjean did come back, that wasn't what he would do. He felt like he had gone insane, and it infuriated him.
He set down the bread and ran a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of his thoughts. However he tried to avoid it, the same question resurfaced over and over: had part of him wanted that kiss? He was disgusted with himself for even considering it. First of all, Valjean was a criminal. He had absolutely no respect for authority and had spent nineteen years of his life in a jail. Second of all, he was – without a doubt – a man, and that sort of behavior was base and sinful. Founded on that, it was clear what Javert had to do: sever all ties with the man, and possibly file a report of his thievery. Javert's instantaneous thought after reaching this conclusion was unnerving – he didn't want to do either of those things. He wanted to see Valjean again, and not in a jail cell.
The thoughts plagued him all night, sending him into a nasty cycle of anger, regret, and shame. When the sun rose again he found he had barely slept. He forced himself up; accepting that mental disarray regardless, life and work must go on. His only hope was that fulfilling his duties would either distract him or make up for the sin currently stewing in his mind.
He almost immediately wished he'd stayed home. As he was patrolling the streets, none other than Jean Valjean approached him as amicably as though they hadn't seen each other in a few days and took to strolling alongside him as he walked, all the while chatting with him about his daughter's impending marriage, the look of the weather, and anything except what had so recently passed between them.
Javert accepted this fairly quickly. He was perfectly capable of pretending nothing had ever occurred. No matter that it would soon happen again, and yet again. No matter that Valjean's visits became increasingly frequent, and their discussions strayed to deeply personal topics that were accompanied by glances that somehow implied a bit more than friendship. As long as they didn't talk about it, Javert could repeatedly convince himself that nothing had changed.