Pardon the plot, if you please.
Damned woman, Javert cursed under his breath; typical of her to squander away her time and report late for her morning duties. Insolate. Willful. Perverse. He caught himself smirking, considering if this infringement of the rules deserved punishment. She should have learned her lesson by now. But perhaps it was a lesson to be taught multiple times.
His head unmoving, his eyes darted to the missives on her table, and then back to the firmly shut door. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he retrieved his pocket watch, its perfectly spotless gold casing gleaming from polish. With a snap, the lid flicked open. Two minutes late already.
One hand cupped the watch before his face, and with his free hand, his finger marked out each second that passed, tapping in time as the thin wire hand traveled through its small circumference. Another forty-two seconds passed before the brass doorknob twisted around. Javert kept his eyes on his watch, observing from the corner of his eye for the exact moment the door shut behind her. "Two minutes and forty-six seconds, Rénauld," he announced clearly, attentively closing the watch and replacing it in his pocket.
"Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur?" Cécelie asked, taken slightly aback by his diverted glare, his single arched brow and the condescending upwards turn of his squared chin.
"Two minutes and forty-six seconds past your shift. I expect perfect punctuality from my subordinates," he chastised her, "And you should know well enough now not to fall short of my expectations." Narrowing his eyes, he finally focused every ounce of their discontent on her, his thick brow arching even higher as he observed the steaming china cup and saucer in her hand, noticing the scent of coffee suddenly present in the room. "What is that?" he snapped in vexation.
Her smile dared tentatively across her mouth, "I brought you a cup of coffee, Monsieur…" Another one of his dark, reproachful scowls stopped her short.
Standing abruptly from his desk, he crossed the room, and Cécelie could distinctly hear the low growl that reverberated from the back of his throat. He drew to a halt just before her. And suspicion filled his cold stare, she could read that much from those pale eyes.
Impassive as ever, she explained herself, "In an effort to demonstrate my goodwill and supplication towards you, I thought I'd bring you something from the mess hall," she offered up the steaming fine china cup, gently turning it by its thin handle around on its saucer with her other hand, "I figured you likely to take your coffee black, Monsieur." She smiled faintly, "I hope my generosity pardons me for my tardiness, Inspector. It won't happen again."
He sniffed in contempt, taking the teacup in his thick fingers nonetheless, "See that it doesn't, Rénauld." His back turned to her once more, he glanced down into the cup; he did, in fact, take his coffee black when he allowed himself the drink. A smiled crept over the corner of his lip as he took a sip of heat and aroma pouring from the cup.
Perhaps he could break her yet. If given the opportunity. Not wanting to risk any stain to desktop or paper, he continued to sip repeatedly from the cup standing before his desk, gazing out the window into the early spring morning. He relished the sound of orderly silence as she began her office duties: the distinct and constant rustling of paper, the soft drone of breathing, the efficient rhythmic tapping of paper-edges to create neat and organized stacks. It fed his fastidious nature. And he breathed it in.
Between systematic sips, he felt her eyes dart up from where she perched rigidly behind her desk. Finished with his coffee, he set the porcelain down on the inactive stove, savoring how the pure china somehow signaled his success and her submission. But as he turned towards he desk, he caught the full bearing of her crystalline gaze—those violet-blue eyes glinting with darker intentions rather lower on his anatomy than he deemed necessary.
Cécelie couldn't help the coquettish smile that crossed her face at being caught. There was something stirring in the way that navy uniformed jacket cut so squarely over his hips, the manner in which the thick fabric of his trousers did nothing to hide the thing that made him more of a man than she ever anticipated. Licking her lip, she looked back down at reports, listening to his footsteps cross behind his desk to resume his officiating seat. With a scrape across the floor, he pulled his chair fully beneath his desk. Deliberate, she smirked to herself; he was no fool and not so unobservant as most. But she was never one to shy away.
Loudly, she cleared her throat, "Inspector." He responded with an acknowledging grunt, his attention still drawn by the files in his hands.
"About last night..." she continued.
At her words, he grew immediately rigid in his seat, his inhale audible from beside her. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes half closed but nonetheless brutal in their emerald intensity.
Cécelie smiled calmly as she spoke, "Pardon me if I am insubordinately forward, but I need to fully know how the lines are drawn, Monsieur. What behaviors warrant punishment," her coquettish grin teased her mouth, "and which illicit a response like last night?" She watched as his jaw flexed in clenching, goading her to continue, "How do I stand in all this, for I already am well aware of exactly how you… stand."
Javert did not squirm, did not stir, did not so much as twitch an eyelash at her brazen behavior. He knew his next move to controlling her. "Officer," he began coolly, confidently, "You really should concern yourself with more pressing matters." The paper file slid smoothly over the desk to her, flicked gently by the tips of his fingers.
Stopping its motion with an outreached hand, Cécelie angled the letter towards her, racing her eyes over the jagged, slanted scrawl of the file. Only a name registered in her mind in the middle of the page. She issued a contemptuous sniff. "Par Dieu," her whisper scornful, "it would be him."
"I thought my latest case might pique your interest, seeing as how you already have history with the criminal," his voice rattled in a deep chuckle; he had leaned against the wooden chair back, turned towards her in his seat, his ankle crossed over his knee, his hands gripping the arms of his chair firmly, and his head tilted back in an angle of arrogance.
She managed to maintain her calm appearance, not betraying the inward pounding of her heart, the fire of bloodlust in her veins. "You ask of me questions you already know the answers to, Inspector Javert. You understand I would do everything to bring… this man… to personal justice," she could not bring herself to so much as utter his name. Her shoulders lifted in a rigid shrug, "So I might as well do everything in my power to bring him to justice under the law."
"You have yet to prove yourself extraordinarily useful to the force," Javert's eyes barely moved from her livid, flushing face, "but I do not doubt you have talents that are yet to be seen, Rénauld."
"You have no idea, Inspector," she laughed violently.
She would have Justice, if only by extension. Deprived of revenge against the man who had so long ruined her life in marriage, she now had the next best thing: the man who drove her deplorable husband to his death. Revenge could be sweet. Revenge could be equal. Revenge was what she craved.