The cool night refreshed him as he pulled his key ring from he pocket of his greatcoat, their jingling music filling the street just outside the back door to the Préfecture. It had been a good night, Javert reflected with a smirk, opening the ally door, which led directly to the attic stairs. Four arrests in one night made for good night. One street urchin no older than ten years caught picking pockets. One near robbery outside some hole-in-the-wall café. And two prostitutes caught assaulting and robbing their own pimp. Unfortunately, he had no grounds to arrest the pimp who was being clawed by fingernails and kicked in the groin by his own whores.

Shutting the door behind him, he made his way up the many stairs to the top floor. Since the prostitute incident, every muscle in his body was taught and anxious, reminded of the similar discarded clothing on that chair as on the whore he clapped in irons. Irons identical to the ones still straining those booted ankles and those perfumed wrists. Every rhythm of his body quickened, his breath, and his pulse, even his resounding footfalls on the wooden steps.

Insolent, rebellious, defiant. It was time he brought her under his control once and for all. Nothing he had tried succeeded, and this sparked the hottest irritation inside him. But just with any problem, any case that grinds to a halt, it was time to change his approach. It was time to change his tactics.

In quicker time than normal, he stood outside her door, grateful he had locked it behind him as he left. Slipping the key into the lock, Javert straightened himself to his full height, his jaw locked firmly, his quelled anger smoldering deep inside him. He braced himself for the worst behind that door.

With barely a squeak, the door opened on its hinges. Dim light, candlelight, and starlight. Entering, the heel of his boot caught on metal beneath his foot. Javert kicked it out from under him, sending two sets of shackles scraping and dancing over the floorboards.

A musical laugh sang from the foot of the bed, and Cécelie leaned herself forward into the window's faint light. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder, flowing in rivulets and waves, golden in the pale light. The deep blue of her eyes dared him to speak first, devilish in their intensity, insolent in their brilliant shine.

Without so much as a pause, Javert picked his shackles from the floor, deposited them in his coat pocket, and walked over to the wooden chair, empty once more, he observed. The fires of anger kindling at his core smoldered surprisingly easily for him, concentrating every ounce of his attention to removing his greatcoat and hat to lay upon the chair. Sensing motion, he peered from the corner of his eye, watching as she stood from the bed, slowly, limb by limb lifting further into the soft beams of moonlight.

Her bare feet padded silently on the floor, stopping half the short distance between where the Inspector stood and her white-sheeted bed. Finally bringing his cold, green stare fully on her, Javert's eyes patiently scanned her body. Little wonder the chair was bare, for those rags, dank and fresh from the prisons, hung loosely from her round and supple form. They no longer reeked of sweat, filth and shame, and the only scent that lit through the air was the velvety perfume of roses.

The burning, hateful embers in his soul flickered out completely; only a chill, severe and ice-hard, remained within him. All the easier for him, he thought. Clasping his hands behind his back, Javert cleared his throat, "I believe apologies are well over due."

Another lilting chuckle, Cécelie smirked wider, opening her lips, "I will not apologize for freeing myself when you left me so long alone. It's simple enough to unscrew a bed's poster and pick four locks..."

"I meant my apology to you, Cécelie," his voice was static, disturbingly present yet barely audible. He watched as her allure stiffened into a grimacing pout, her thin brows furrowing and every muscle of her face strained tight. There was the anger, the defensive fury he expected in reaction; Javert drew his eyes away from her, softening the firm press of his mouth, as he began to remove the stiff fabric of his uniform jacket. His mind quickened its sharpness, racing to find just how to best sugar his words next.

"My conduct towards you has been fitting that of a superior to an unruly subordinate," he paused to set his jacket perfectly atop his greatcoat. "Do not understand this apology to be in regards to that vein of my behavior since you have shown little respect for my powerful authority."

She huffed in derision, folding her arms before her thinly bloused chest, her face returning to its inscrutable impassivity. "However..." she prompted, her voice filled with a dark, bitter sounding curiosity.

"However," Javert straightened to his full height, bringing the kindest look capable of him down to meet her own gaze, "I believe in my fervent desire to create order and enforce authority, I have overlooked the matter of your nobility, and for that I offer you my apologies."

Like the crack in the dam that begins to leak just for it crumbles away, Cécelie's impassive expression first began to twitch, her head drawn back and her eyes narrowed to barely more than a visible slit. "Really?" she sneered

"Yes," Javert took two steps to meet where she stood, "Believe me, Comptesse." He fought a smirk as her eyes relaxed open, gazing up into his face inches above her own. "Forgive me, Cécelie," he whispered gently, smiling as he saw the traces of moisture collecting in the corner of her eye.

Cruel of me to separate it... but it is rather long. TBC, I promise.