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XI: Fireworks

Weeks passed in healing silence. Javert had grown busier with patrols as he neared his goal of becoming Inspector, and he hadn't talked much to Aimée since the funeral. The dinner at the mayor's mansion had been the quietest meal Javert had ever eaten Aimée had sat across from him and he couldn't prevent himself from watching her, making sure she ate. Gérard had said a few tired words to him, thanking him for bringing her back to the meal and even expressed gratitude for finding her in the storm.

"I just wasn't in my right mind," Gérard had said, exhaling into his soup, "but you kept her safe."

Javert couldn't tell if his gratitude was genuine or forced.

As he walked the streets with his hands clasped behind his back, he watched the people of Toulon. Fat bread-makers, skinny weavers, strong butchers, he began to recognize everyone in the city slowly but surely. Javert began spending less and less time at the shipyards. He would check in every now and then, grace or curse the future of an inmate with a signature or command other guards to shape up, but he was mostly scouring the streets.

Aimée grew stronger as this time passed, but she never grew a stranger. A few times, Javert had spotted her in the square. Their eyes met, stormy blue to stony green, his downturned and almost questioning. She would give him a little smile and a small nod, and he would exhale in small relief. These small gestures let him know that she was ok, that she was strong. Once or twice, they spoke to each other, small passing things that floated in the air out of courtesy.

"How are you today, monsieur?"

"Fine, and yourself?"

"I'm all right."

They might say a few things about the weather or maybe even about some sort of town gossip, but the only conversation Javert needed was that short, quick glance that she would throw him. Words weren't needed.

Aimée herself was touched by his worry. Gérard had immersed himself so deeply in Beaudet's accounts that she sometimes wondered if he had mourned her mother or stillborn brother at all. The thoughts came to her bitterly, and she would always try and force them away out of loyalty to her father's integrity. Of course he had mourned his wife. What a cruel thing to think. However, as more and more of her evenings were spent in just Anna's company, she started to grow resentful towards the man.

As she walked to the market nearly every day, Aimée found herself scanning the crowds for a bearded man with perfect posture. If she was lucky enough to stumble across him, a look was guaranteed. Aimée was always afraid of bothering him when he was on patrol, so she never spoke to him unless they practically bumped shoulders. Javert would always meet her eyes first, or, rather, she would meet his eyes and already discover them watching her, intent with concern.

As time passed, she would remember their conversations at night. Aimée loved to remember him telling her about Morocco when he was a ship guard. As he spoke, she remembered his eyes going slightly out of focus, as if he was lost in thought or memory. She could almost pretend to smell the thick spices in the air and hear the pounding of drums with the clatter of tambourines.

Aimée tried not to remember him talking to her in the graveyard, the new softness that had melted into his voice as he struggled to find a way to comfort her. The poor man was so unused to human interaction that the mere thought of escorting her mad him stiffen and glance around nervously. Aimée wanted to kick herself every time she remembered about her uncontrollable burst of need in the grave yard. The burst that drove her to wrap her arms around him tightly. He was uncomfortable, stiff, and near frightened, but when she had apologized, Javert's face softened and he told her not to.

Aimée's hair cascaded down and tickled her neck as she shook her head at night before she slept. She was amazed at how much comfort she felt just looking into someone eyes every now and then for weeks of silence. She hoped that by this time she wouldn't be considered foolish to call him a friend.

After a month had passed, Javert was riding on his first full time patrol, twenty-four hours. It was Bastille Day, the same day that the walls of the famous prison had been stormed and the inglorious French Revolution had started. Javert didn't appreciate anarchy or rebellion, so he had always grown sour on celebrations like this. No doubt he would be expected to arrive at the mayor's home for a party. He had been cast into the fat mayor's circle of associates and was invited.

Beaudet had provided him his very own horse to patrol with, a powerful blue-roan male with a sleek dark mane and tale. His saddle was black leather with metal studs and the horse's bit glinted in polished silver. Worn reigns rested in between the fingers of Javert's riding gloves, and he inhaled deeply, greatly enjoying the feeling of the horse moving beneath him as he rode above the people of Toulon. The horse's heavy hooves clopped against the packed earth of the streets lazily.

There was a gathering of people in the square that afternoon, all of them crowding the fountain. The solid thumps of hooves changed to a tapping clack as the horse went from packed dirt to cobblestones. Javert craned his neck to try and see over the crowd and he found a man sitting in the fountain, literally in the fountain, soaked to the bone and his white shirt sticking transparently to his chest. Javert's face sobered as the crowd parted

"You there, what are you doing?" he said, his voice like stone. The man looked up from his spot in the fountain, hair flopped in his face.

"Sitting," he said.

"In a fountain?" Javert's eyebrows furrowed and he swung himself off of his horse's back. The roan shifted its weight from foot to foot and snorted. "Get out."

The man held up his hands. "Alright," he said and complied. He stepped out of the water and the crowd watched him.

"What are you doing?" Javert asked again, looking him over cynically.

"A demonstration. I'm a performer."

"What kind of demonstration?" Javert turned and looked over his shoulder before he waved an arm at the crowd. "Go on," he told them, "On your way."

With a few soft grumbles, the people dissipated. Javert's green eyes were back on the man. Sandy blonde hair and gray eyes. Tall and lean, but not thin. Javert leaned backwards a little on his heels and rested a hand on the butt of his baton that lay strapped to his waist.

"I was doing a demonstration on how wondrous the human body was," the blonde answered. "I was holding my breath. I had reached near three minutes before you rode up."

"And why in God's name would you do that?" Javert's nerves were starting to fray as he struggled to find sense in the young man's actions.

Smiling, he reached into his pockets and showed Javert a handful of coins.

"Soliciting is not allowed in the square. What is your name?"

"Julian," the man answered, turning and pocketing the money. "I swear, I wasn't trying to cause trouble, just wanted to get a few coins in order to eat."

"Where are you from?" Toulon was a small, simple town, barely a city. Showman's and traveling performers were rare if not unheard of here.

"Paris, traveling the countryside to reach my uncle."

Javert grunted. "Well, if you plan on pandering for more coins, I suggest you get out of here before I arrest you." He turned and swung himself up on his horse. The sky was overcast above him, as gray as the sea foam.

Julian gave him a sardonic wave over his shoulder as he left. "I pray we never meet again, Officer."

Javert watched him go, his mouth a hard frown. He didn't trust young men. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled on the reins and nudged the horse into a trot, the heavy footsteps clopping on the stone. Julian's face was easy enough to imprint on his mind, he would be sure not to forget it.

Along with his first patrol, Javert was expected to check into the city hall's justice department. Toulon only needed one or two officers to patrol the streets, so the main office was little more than a pantry in the pillared courthouse. Tying up his horse before the city building, he patted the animal's thick neck as he turned away from it and walked up the stairs, curtly removing his riding gloves.

Three knocks on the wooden door signaled his presence to the justice bookkeeper. A frail man, nearing the age of eighty with spindly spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose answered the door.

"Ah, bonjour, Monsieur Javert," he said, standing aside and letting him in. "How is our city today, hmm? Are you enjoying your patrol?"

Javert nodded, "The streets are clean, sir."

"Oh hush, enough of that 'sir' nonsense, I'm just a bookkeeper!" the old man shuffled some papers and Javert noticed an engraved plaque resting atop his desk.

Philippe Rousset was his name. Philippe thumbed through some papers and withdrew a folded note. The justice seal of Paris was stamped onto the parchment. Javert's eyebrows rose in surprise when he recognized the seal.

"I'm glad you stopped in, Javert," Philippe coughed, extending the letter. "This arrived for you this morning. Bad news, I'm afraid."

Javert swallowed and took the letter and it felt as heavy as concrete as he unfolded it and started to scan the neat words.

"That inmate disappeared. Skipped on his parole. He was supposed to meet with the officers, but he never arrived. Inquiry spotted him at a convent and that was the last time anyone had seen him."

"Valjean…" Javert murmured, angrily looking up from the paper. "He ran from police when he was being arrested. I should've never filled out his parole paperwork." The letter crumpled as his hands fisted.

Philippe nodded. "The courts knew you were head of the prison here. They're requesting you be promoted straight away to Inspector so you can begin a pursuit. I expect that after this twenty-four hour shift, Beaudet will sign the necessary paperwork and you will head to Paris."

Paris…Javert was going to Paris. That about a day's ride by carriage. He knew he should be excited, but his face fell and he turned to his characteristic stone. He gave the bookkeeper a nod and turned to leave, thanking him for his time.

The air was heavy outside, thick with summer sun, and flags had been hung from windows. Red, white, and blue swung lazily in the light breeze. The market bustled and bakers were slaving away, making cakes that were high in demand. Holidays always meant busy days for pastry chefs and confectioners. As he rode past a café that had strawberry pastries sitting in the window, dusted with powdered sugar, he thought of the handkerchief he still kept in his pocket, the stains still rubbed into the cloth.

With a pang that almost thrust him off his horse, he realized that he would be leaving Toulon…and the girl that lived there. Aimée would be alone here, alone with the people she despised. Javert wasn't a naive man, he guessed that his looks were a welcome sight in her life, even if they were fleeting. He recognized how her face softened and she dared even smile as she gave him a small nod before turning away to talk with Anna.

His horse snorted against his reins, tossing his head as if he felt Javert's anxiety.

But he couldn't refuse this job. Inspector had been what Javert had been striving towards for years. Those long, salt-encrusted days at the shipyards and tireless nights reading about the law. This position was more important to him than anything he had ever known. The desire to keep France safe was finally about to meet the means and power that he needed.

She would understand, Javert convinced himself as he continued around the city, it's been a month and she hasn't needed you. She'll forget you sooner or later.

Once again, Aimée Lamenté found herself sitting in a lavish dress in Beaudet's ornate hall. Things were still a little awkward between her and the mayor, but they were definitely on friendlier terms. She had smiled when he greeted her and her father back into his home and even dared kiss her hand. This time, she was wearing a deep purple gown, an amethyst and pearl choker across her neck

Even if she wasn't looking forward to the party very much, she was relieved to be associating with other people. Her father's face was a rarity and, even though she had grown close to the servant, she craved other attention. She still grieved at night for her mother's company, yet this night she was feeling better than she ever had, the lush silk covering her body making her feel beautiful for once. Aimee's hair, usually dusty blonde, now shone with a golden gleam as it cascaded down her shoulder in lazy curls. She smiled at people with painted lips and looked at them through kohl lashes.

At first, whispers followed the young woman as she entered Beaudet's hall.

"Poor little Aimée." "What a tragedy." "All alone with her father?"

Aimée had grown stronger in her mourning and she began to despise he pity that clung to her.

Anton was still in town, even a month later. She saw him, craning his neck to look at the women hungrily, practically rubbing his hands together as he schemed. Aimée waited patiently, cradling the champagne in her hand with tender fingers. When the fox's eyes landed on the once little duckling, he was amazed to see that she had flourished in her pain. Stronger, prouder, more of a woman than he would ever hope to court. Her chin rose as she glared at him, and she sipped at her drink before turning away and looking for other people to mingle with.

Her father had left her alone for the evening as he went off to talk with other bankers he recognized. She was a little disappointed, thinking that this evening she would finally be able to spend some time with him.

You would think he would want to stay with the only family he's got, Aimée thought bitterly as she sipped her drink again.

When she would find people she recognized, their conversation was stiff and formal. No doubt they were waiting for her to break down and sob uncontrollably or something like that. They were cautious in their words, mentally scanning everything they said to make sure that nothing would be considered offensive or sensitive. Finally, with the sad huff of failure, Aimée stood by herself watching people dance and toast the revolution.

Music swirled around her and she smiled, content with just seeing some happiness around her.

The doors opened and Aimée looked over as Javert strode in. She craned her neck over the crowd as she spotted Beaudet walk over to him, shake his hand fervently, and clap him on the back of the shoulder. Javert nodded, said something to the mayor, and looked around.

As if they were two magnets, their eyes found each other without trouble. Javert paused as he spoke, but then blinked and turned his attention back to Beaudet. The mayor laughed and reached to a servant then thrust the glass of champagne into Javert's hand. Turning, fat Beaudet found Aimée standing by her lonesome, and marched over to her. Javert followed at a safe distance, cautiously staring at her. She shivered a moment, feeling as if his eyes could see straight into her thoughts.

"Aimée, my dear, enjoying the night of the revolution? he asked, surprisingly sober. She didn't know it, but the mayor had sworn off the drink once the tragedies of the last month had died down.

"Yes, Beaudet," she had dropped the formalities long ago. Her champagne had started to warm and the sharpness of the warmed alcohol started to replace the tang.

"Well, I have a surprise for this evening. A friend of mine just got back from traveling in the Orient," he bragged, "And he brought back cases of fireworks. Big exploding things that fill up the sky with color and sound. Soon here, we're going to be lighting them off. Isn't that exciting?"

Aimée had grown used to pretending. "Oh, very exciting!" she exclaimed, "I can't wait!"

He smiled, his cheeks rosy from happiness instead of wine. "I'll go and find your father. I have a few matters to discuss with him about my finances." He gave Aimée and Javert once last friendly blink before he turned and threaded his way through his party.

Aimée watched him go before she turned and looked at Javert, his face even and emotionless. The collar of his uniform was high and the buttons polished. It fit him well. She quickly glanced at the floor.

"How are you, monsieur Javert?" she asked.

"I'm doing well," he said, as stiffly as usual. He was fearful of what silence might bring, so when he started to feel himself lapse into it, he blurted, "I have a horse now."

Surprisingly, she brightened, looking like the Aimée he was comfortable with. The one that handed him dirty flowers, not the one dressed up behind elegance. "Can I see him?" she asked.

He blinked at her. "You want to see my horse?"

"Yes."

"Haven't you ever seen a horse before, mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Of course I have…I just want to get out of this house," she replied, rolling her eyes and waving her hand. His eyes lightened as he watched the habit.

"Alright."

The night was much cooler than the day had been. No one noticed as they quickly descended the steps from Beaudet's twinkling house. Javert led her down the carriage path a little ways to where his horse was tied up, its head lowered as it munched at the dewy grass. At their approach, the horse looked up, black strands of his mane resting between its dark, calm eyes.

Aimée made a little sound of happiness when she saw him and stepped forward, holding her hand out to the horse's velvet nose. It huffed once or twice over her hand, cascading it with warm breath, and then looked up to its rider. She bit her lip in the night as she pressed her palm against the horse's thick neck.

"He's beautiful," she said softly as Javert stood a couple steps behind her, watching her hand pet the blue-roan coat.

Javert was silent as he stood aside. He knew he had to tell her about his leaving. There was a possibility that he wouldn't even be in Toulon tomorrow night. He wasn't even supposed to be at this party…he was supposed to be out on the streets patrolling. But, once he looked at that house twinkling up on the hill, he knew she would be inside.

"What's his name?" she asked suddenly, turning and looking over her shoulder at him. He noticed how the moonlight played across her hair, turning it from gold to silver.

"I haven't named him," he said.

"What? You have to name your horse!" she exclaimed, turning and looking at him quizzically, her arms crossed in front of her. Javert noted how particularly stubborn she looked. She stuck out her chin. "Let me name him."

"As you wish," he said as he felt the corners of his mouth lilt upwards and he extended a hand to the horse.

She thought a moment. "Ombre."

He looked at the horse and decided the name fit. "Very well, Ombre."

Aimée grinned and turned back to the horse, this time running her hands along the short hair of his muzzle. She liked the way the horse's warm breath softy puffed against her hand as she ran her hands over his soft nose. She bent down, tore up some grass, and held it out for him and giggled when his big lips fluttered against her palm.

She looks happy, Javert thought. Happier than I've seen her.

When she turned to look at him, his heart skipped a beat as he noticed her eyes in the darkness. They were no longer hidden behind pain…they were as bright and blue as the first day they had met.

"I've been all right," Aimée said, answering his unasked question. "I wish we could've talked more, but I know you were busy with your patrols. I'm doing ok."

At her words, Javert felt his body relax in relief. "I was going to ask you, mademoiselle."

Aimée held up her hand, "Please…I don't want to ask you again. Call me Aimée. I feel like we've known each other enough to throw those stupid formalities away.

Javert swallowed and clenched and unclenched his hands. "Aimée," he said softly. He decided he liked the way her name felt as it left his mouth. Almost a sigh, light as a feather and sweet, like a crisp bite of an apple.

She smiled at him. "There…that wasn't so hard."

No…it wasn't. But it was going to be. Now he felt an overpowering sense of duty to her, a protection that he could not explain nor deny. The second her name escaped his lips, Javert's heart twisted as he realized he would be leaving her here, alone in the town that had tried to break her, with the people that left her alone in that graveyard.

"You want to say something," she said, looking at him and crossing her arms across her deep purple dress.

Javert realized that his mouth was gently hanging slack. He quickly closed it and looked down to his shoes. Closing his eyes, he searched inside himself for the courage to meet her eyes and tell her. He cleared his throat and lifted his head, but found that he was looking past her, to Ombre.

"Mademoiselle- Aimée- I must tell you something." Javert was struggling with his words and his voice was low and thick, sluggish with the desire to close his mouth. "I'm-"

But before the man could finish, the sky exploded behind him. He whirled and craned his neck upwards, amazed at the blue and red showers that filled the night sky. Another dazzling streak of pure white rocketed above Beaudet's house and exploded into a thousand crackling sparks.

"Oh my god…" Aimée breathed, stepping forward and her hair cascading from her head as she held her head upwards to watch the show. She flinched once when an especially loud boom filled the sky, but she quickly recovered. The red and white light kissed at her face in the night. Aimée stood close to Javert as they both watched the fireworks. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, watching with pure awe and wonder plastered across his face. The firmness was gone, his stone features replaced by an actual human face.

She saw him blink in surprise three of the fireworks exploded in unison over Beaudet's land. Aimée smiled and reached out to him, finding his hand and enveloping it with her own. He stiffened at first, and turned to look at her, his eyes searching her face. Giving him a smile, she squeezed his hand. Without gloves she could feel that his skin was warm and rough against hers, his fingers thick. Aimée threw caution to the wind and moved so that her fingers were entwined with his. She squeezed again, realizing that he was uncomfortable.

Then, gently, tentatively, she felt his fingers tighten in response.

She stood closer and felt the fabric of his coat brushing against his exposed arm. They both craned their necks to watch the colored miracles burst into the sky.