Author's Notes: Well! Heh. I never really expected to post much of anything on purely for a lack of plot-ical inspiration. : ) Anywho, I used to be registered under the penname VoldieForPrez, but decided to switch to a more independent name for the sake of my Les Mis stuff.
As for this story… Honestly, it probably doesn't have much of a point, if any at all. It could actually more accurately be described as an experiment. I want to know if this side of Javert is believable and if I could work it in to his overall character. It's mostly here to serve as a description of his apartment (and that's pretty much all it was in a roleplay I'm a part of), but a room shows a lot about someone's personality and I just want some opinions other than those of my friends. Heh. Please leave feedback, whether I'm doing something wrong or doing something right--I'd appreciate it greatly.
Also, just to add a bit of background, Javert is just returning home from a long, tiring day on the job. It wasn't a good day, as you'll probably surmise. :D Uhm… and please keep in mind that all if this only occurs when Javert is alone. At work, and toward other people, he is still that usual formidable figure we all know and love, sarcastic humor, curt speech and all.
I hope this isn't too Out of Character! Heehee. Enjoy… I hope.
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An exhausted Inspector Javert pulled a set of keys from one of his large pockets and unlocked the door to his flat. He stepped inside, set his truncheon against the wall and shut the door behind him. It was 2:30 AM and he never had the chance to have a bite of supper. He supposed that although the lateness of the hour diminished his appetite quite a bit, he should at least have a slice of bread leftover from his midday meal. As long as he only had a slice, he'd have enough left to eat for a small breakfast when he awoke. He hadn't had the time to stop into his usual bakery for some extra bread, cheese and a croissant before it closed for the evening, so he'll have to either make do with what he had or stop into a café the following morning.
With an agile, practiced hand, Javert quickly unbuttoned his heavy woolen greatcoat from the chin down, removed it, and hung it on a plain black coat rack he kept by the door. He frowned at the few small tears and stains he eyed here and there. Have to get those mended... His wide leather stock followed the coat on the rack soon afterwards. He idly brushed off his conservative slate-gray waistcoat and plain black trousers as he strode over to his designated 'eating table.' With a frown, he picked a bit at a few small bloodstains he caught near the wrist of his right shirtsleeve and made a mental note to have it cleaned later.
As a whole, Javert's apartment honestly wasn't much to look at. There was more in it than an average acquaintance of his may have guessed, but he was never really known to stay in one place for too long, and he wasn't much of a decorator. The easiest, most efficient way to describe the inspector's flat was respectable or orderly clutter, for lack of better terms. Massive piles of YEARS-old issues of Le Moniteur lay in stacks atop the three unused chairs at his eating table, almost entirely untouched and unread. Javert preferred to keep them all 'in case he needed them for use in future investigations.' There was a stove situated in a corner of the main room for heating on colder nights. Cans of polish accompanied by dirtied, but neatly-folded rags and piles of handwritten papers lie atop a desk against the far wall. A small bookcase filled mostly with reference material linked to his work as well as a few scattered pieces by Voltaire and the Marquis de Sade was situated next to this desk despite his dislike for reading. Even a single, lonely copy of Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo could be found on those shelves, although Javert has yet to attempt to tackle that one. Not that he'd want to, but it was there lest the crazy notion of reading struck his mind. All of his books were very well-kept, with not a single dent, scratch, bend, or tear marring any of his volumes--not even those he checked often for the sake of reference. A narrow set of stairs led to a small single bedroom on the second floor. This is where Javert kept most of his personal belongings and his extra sets of clothing (including an extra undershirt or two, one extra waistcoat, an old pair of boots, a tattered hat, an extra pair of pants and two pairs of stockings--all lying in a relatively organized fashion upon a chair beside his bed rather than inside his dresser).
Javert took a seat at his eating table and lit the single candle situated as a makeshift centerpiece to add a bit of life to the room. The leftover bread from his midday meal sat atop the table, just where he left it. He broke off a couple pieces and uncorked a half-empty bottle of red wine to pour into his usual glass for a bit of a thirst-quencher. He ate in silence, left to reminisce over the day, what went wrong, what could possibly go wrong tomorrow unless he addressed the problems soon enough, and what he could do to remedy his mistakes. He positively cursed himself for not being crafty enough to catch all of the Patron-minette gang, wondering of just how much use he truly was to La Force if he could not catch a group of obviously mentally ill-equipped but highly well-known criminals. Javert never did feel he could do his job well enough to justify the praise he usually received from Monsieur L'Préfet Gisquet despite his confident air, but he was usually met with incredulity whenever he so much as suggested an objection. It was beyond him why anyone would want to praise his work so. He was the bastard son of a gypsy, after all; doomed to be equated to the dregs of society.
But isn't this why Javert was so hell-bent on recapturing the much sought-after Jean Valjean? So he could prove to himself and everyone else once and for all that he could BE the ideal inspector he modeled his life after? That he deserved respect, that the Law deserved respect? That he, an enforcer and avatar of the Law, was someone to be reckoned with, a coveted ally as much as he was a worthy adversary? Isn't that why he worked so hard at his self-image, at an honest life? To strive for what society wanted from him?
However, this is a different matter entirely, to be addressed at a later date.
Javert set aside the remaining portion of bread and sipped the last of his wine. He re-corked the wine bottle and rose from his chair with a small stretch, relaxing to a stature no one in public would ever lay eyes upon. He brushed the leftover crumbs off the table and into his cupped palm and threw them away in his relatively empty wastebasket. He picked up the lit candle, turned and trudged up his narrow stairs with a heavy step and obvious fatigue.
Although the room downstairs was kept tidy in case any of his colleagues were to enter (not that they were usually prone to), Javert's bedroom was much more personal. To the side, just below a small window, were various butterflies mounted on a plain white framed board. He didn't care for these dead butterflies one bit, but he hated to wastefully throw things away, so he simply allowed it to collect dust under that window. He received it as a congratulatory gift about twelve years ago, when he was first promoted to Inspector and transferred to the godawful little town of Montreuil-sur-Mer. It was, quite possibly, one of the few times he could say he ever received a gift from anyone, no matter how impersonal the exchange was. A pistol with a pile of extra rounds lay unused within the top drawer of his dresser. A washbasin, a pitcher, a single brush, a clean handkerchief, a couple black hair ribbons, a razor and an extra snuffbox lay artfully, symmetrically arranged atop his dresser in front of a decent-sized oval mirror hung on the wall. A couple decks of rarely-used playing cards lay in a pile beside his chair full of clothing. He only owned them because he felt he should, and most likely confiscated all of these decks from various criminals at some point or another. They were tokens the service allowed him to keep for their lack of usefulness in a trial.
However, the most interesting of all the items in his room were the piles of notebooks, papers, and leaden pencils placed in scattered, but relatively neat piles on top and at the foot of his bed.
They were sketches. Piles of sketches, ranging from landscapes to the faces of criminals Javert recalled from his remarkably astute memory to still-lifes. Many of them were viciously scribbled over or crossed out in a fit of frustration. Some of them contained notes to the artist, little notes such as Hands are too big, This building is lopsided, or This bottle looks positively revolting.
Javert strode over to the mirror hung above his dresser, set the candle down, and peered at his reflection. The inspector grimaced at his unruly, beaten reflection, taking note of the bruises about his left eye and a rather nasty lump on his head. He silently hoped to himself that this evidence of the day's humiliation would fade as swiftly as possible. He carefully procured the remains of his black hair-ribbon from his filthy hair and set it down. Javert plucked his hairbrush from the dresser and set to work taming his wild graying mane.
Before long, Javert's dampened hair hung in a neat, clean silver curtain down to his elbows. He had used his washbasin to tidy himself up, brushing out his massive whiskers only as an afterthought to cleaning up. He absolutely hated feeling dirty—he felt it put him on the same level as the wretched poor on the streets. Javert quickly changed into his plain, white dressing-gown, setting aside his everyday wear in its designated pile atop his chair. It was late. Sleep was coming to claim him.
And so, at roughly 3:15 AM, Javert crawled into bed with meticulous care not to wrinkle or crush any of his papers. It wasn't long after that single candle was blown out that the inspector fell into a sound sleep.