Author's Note: So, hello all! This one's just more of a filler chapter, annoying but necessary as we move along with our story! Hope you all continue to enjoy!

IX: Notes

Javert startled himself awake with a strong snore. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, running a hand over his face. Looking around, he noticed that the window was the pale indigo of dawn. Javert groaned and turned away from the window, his neck stiff and sore. He found himself sitting in his stiff armchair facing the fireplace, now only smoky embers barely glowing in the hearth. He scratched his chin and looked to the other chair, only to find it empty. His eyes widened in small worry as he rose from his seat and walked into the hall. The door to one of Javert's guest rooms was slightly open and he cautiously stuck his head inside. There on the bed, Aimée slept heavily, curled up on her side and facing the wall, her blonde hair a wild, sprawled mess against the pillows. Next to her slept her servant girl, Anna, also curled up on her side and her back pressing against Aimée's.

A relived sigh escaped his lips as he retreated back into the hall and shut the door quietly. He placed his forehead on the worn wood and murmured a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord above.

"Thank you for keeping her safe. Thank you for letting me find her before someone else did. Thank you for letting her sleep," Javert's voice was thick from exhaustion, but there was no more time for him to sleep. His footsteps were heavy and slow as he climbed the stairs in order to get to his personal bedroom.

Unlike the rest of his bare house, Javert's room resembled something that actually held life. His bed was covered with thick navy linens and the walls were adorned with paintings and plaques. At the foot of his bed sat a large mahogany chest with brass clasps. Inside, he kept as many things as he could that held meaning, things from his childhood and more recent items. However…he had not opened it for a very long time, so it sat quietly in his room, content to hold his treasures. A large wardrobe took up most of the left wall, and a fireplace sat in front of his bed and chest, the hearth a cream colored marble laced with spindly black streaks. A bookshelf sat next to the window and lamps reached out from all four walls in order to keep the space well lit. Javert stared at a painting of a lion fighting a bull as he removed his uniform coat. The lion's teeth were bared in a snarl against the bull's curved horn and the veins in the bull's neck bulged out from rage and adrenaline. Javert's eyes met with the lion's as he stripped off his white undershirt.

Javert was not an unfit man. Strong muscles clung to his bones, none of them soft or undefined. The man's chest was covered in a light dusting of dark hair and his biceps rose like gentle hills from his arms. He walked to the wash basin and poured the leftover water from the pitcher. Dipping the washcloth into the water, Javert wiped his face, brought the cloth over his chest and shoulders, and cleaned underneath his arms. The water was cold, but he found it helpful to stay awake. With thick fingers, he rubbed his eyes and then ran his palms over his cheeks. Drying off with a hand towel, he walked back to the wardrobe and pulled out a fresh shirt. He figured he could pass another day in his navy pants. The hem had stayed clear from the mud thanks to his boots.

Once dressed in a clean shirt, Javert grabbed his outer jacket and quietly descended his stairs, each creak sounding like a gunshot in the early morning silence. He contemplated going to the kitchen to eat some breakfast, but he didn't want to risk making noise. Aimée needed as much sleep as possible. Instead, he grabbed some spare coins from a dish that sat on the table in the entryway so he could stop at an early bakery before he entered the shipyards. Slipping the money into his pocket, he surveyed the house once more, barely breathing in order to size up the silence. When he was content that the two women were still sleeping, he slipped out into the early morning haze before the birds even chirped their songs.

When Aimée rose, she was in the bed alone. The curtains were drawn and only a thin sliver of sunlight reached into the room. She had no idea what time it was or where she was at first. Then, in a rush of violent, thrashing images, the memories came back. Blood on the floor…white hospital linens, pouring rain, and the thunder that sounded like the cruel laughter of God himself. She hugged herself tightly, mentally building stones against the pain and grief. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she permitted a few to trickle down her cheeks. She struggled to blink them away. Getting up, she padded over to the window and grasped the curtains in her hands. The late morning light violently shot into her eyes and the yellowness of the sun stung. Holding up a hand to her face, Aimée squinted out the window, waiting as her oceanic eyes adjusted.

Her dark memories started to fade as Aimée looked out into the sunlight, even though they were as fresh as a new cut. She recollected on how she got to the house. Javert had found her at the docks, pulling a blanket in his hand and a lantern to chase away the darkness. The quiet man had been growing more and more familiar to her, seeming to pop up when she least expected it.

Or when I desperately need it…Aimée thought, bringing her thumb to her mouth and biting at her nail. From Javert's guest bedroom window, Aimée had a fair view of the square. People were bustling about, to and fro, oblivious to her blue eyes as they darted from person to person. Dust sparkled though the light, looking like snow on a summer day, and carts rolled through the still tacky mud of the Toulon backstreets.

As she turned away from the window, she caught sight of herself in the reflective surface of a grungy mirror. Aimée's hair was tangled, a dusty blonde rat's nest, and her eye was finally fully open, the swelling gone and her normal coloration returning. The salt air had greedily sucked the hydration from her lips, leaving them chapped and split. Her face looked skinnier than she remembered, her cheekbones protruding from under her skin. Disgusted with how she looked, Aimée turned and left the room. Down the hall, meat sizzled in a cast iron pan. Fat crackled and popped as a meal cooked over the fire in the kitchen. Aimée followed the noise, her stomach twisting and growling in its hunger.

"Good afternoon, miss," Anna beckoned as Aimée shuffled her way into Javert's kitchen. The maid had already gotten up, dressed, and groomed. Anna had returned to the Lamenté's home earlier that morning to fetch a few things. A bundle of ham, bread, and cheese sat in a basket on the counter next to the cook fire. Next to that was another cloth bag.

"Afternoon?" Aimée asked.

"Yes, you've slept well past the morning. I fetched you a hairbrush, soap, and a day dress from your home," Anna said as she prodded two thick slabs of ham as they sizzled and popped in the pan with a wooden spoon. The smell was not merciful as it flowed through Aimée's nose and ripped at her stomach. The little bowl of soup that she had eaten the night before did nothing to keep her full.

"I left warm water in the pitcher only moments ago, it should still be the right temperature," Anna continued as she unbundled the loaf of bread. "You can clean up and get dressed. Then we can eat."

Aimée gathered up the bag in her arms and left the kitchen obediently. Back in the guest room, she found the porcelain wash bin in the corner, a folded cloth rag draped against the side. She picked up the pitcher, white porcelain ordained with delicate blue flowers, and poured the steaming water into the bowl. Anna left two towels on the floor next to the table that held the wash bin. Aimée desperately craved a large wash tub, but this simple wipe down would have to do.

Digging through the bag, she easily found the bar of soap and her hairbrush. She tried to drag it though her hair when dry, but the bristles only got caught in the tangles. Aimée huffed back a frustrated sigh and craned her neck to the side, trying to get as much of her hair in the basin as possible. She rubbed her hands over the soap so lather spread through her fingers and dripped down her wrist. With a determined face, Aimée then started to scrub her hair as best as she could. When she was finished, Anna had left her a large towel. Wrapping her hair up inside it, Aimée washed her face, scrubbing away the sea salt and tears. After she finished with her face, she ventured over to the window and closed the curtains. Then she closed the door. In her new privacy, she stripped out of her chemise and cleaned her chest, stomach, arms, and legs. Patting herself dry with the second towel, she got dressed in a fresh undergarment, petticoat, and finally managed to lace herself into a simple green dress.

Once dressed, Aimée removed her hair from the towel and attacked her hair with her brush without mercy. She cried out when the bristles would unforgivably tug at her roots, yet she brushed with as much fervor as she could muster. Finally, after a decade of curses, grunts, and growls, the teeth of her brush glided through her golden hair smoothly. Hiding back a haughty smile of small success, Aimée headed back to the kitchen.

When she entered again, two plates were set on a small kitchen table, piled with ham, bread, and cheese. Anna was fetching a pitcher of drinking water from the pump in the corner of the room, the metal handle creaking as the young maid heaved it up and down. Aimée was seated and already starting to devour her meal with her eyes.

"You can start to eat, miss," Anna said as she dug into a cupboard, trying to find out where the man who owned the house hid his drinking glasses.

"I thought I told you to call me Aimée?" Aimée replied as she waited patiently for Anna to sit down with her.

Once the maid found two carved wooden glasses, she poured the water and sat down across the simple table, her eyes glancing over Aimée's face. She seemed pleased with the girl's simple sponge bath.

"You did tell me. Forgive me, but it will be a hard habit to break," Anna gave her a small nod along with a faint smile. "Now, let us pray so we can eat."

"I don't feel like praying," Aimée said, picking up her fork and starting to cut at her breakfast, her face solemn. Anna sighed as she looked at the girl, but nodded and started to eat as well. The breakfast, no matter how simple it was, was a welcome blessing to Aimée. Her stomach gladly received the warm food and she wolfed it down like a starving street urchin. Grease shone on her chin and she reached for the cloth napkin that Anna had provided for her.

"Aimée, I know you don't want to hear this, but we're going to have to go back to the house today," Anna was cautious as she said the words, her fork hovering over her plate and her eyes studying the blonde girl across from her.

Aimée sniffed as she continued to eat, not looking up. "I don't want to go back."

"I know, miss, but we have to. Your father will most likely be there…and you must honor your mother at her funeral."

"Father didn't even come looking for me after I left the hospital, Anna," Aimée said, her voice bitter.

Anna bit her lip and her eyes casted downwards. "He wasn't in his right mind, Aimée."

Aimée sniffed and finished eating in silence. "What about Javert? We're just going to leave?" she asked, picking up her plate and putting it in the washbasin.

"We can leave a note," Anna suggested, "His study is right down the hall, I'm sure you can find some ink and paper. And we can leave him the rest of this ham as a thank you. The man hasn't got much to eat in here."

Aimée pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "Alright," she finally agreed, "You wash up, and I'll make the bed and write a note."

Already pumping water into the washbasin, Anna nodded. She began to scrub when Aimée left the kitchen and padded down the hall. The floorboards were dusty, she noticed, and the walls had little color. Still, it was not a bad house to be living in. People of France have dwelled in much less than this. She pictured Javert walking down the halls, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture perfect, even in the privacy of his home. In her mind's eye, he would sniff or adjust a lamp on the wall, or sit in front of the hearth with a book. Aimée did a small double take as she walked past the living room. She could've sworn she had seen him sleeping in the chair, his head lulled forward as he snored softly as he had the night before.

As she searched for the study, Aimée allowed herself a small smile in his home.

She found herself biting her lip as she wandered into a room that had a large oak desk with an inkwell, papers, and a few books and ledgers sprawled across the top. A dusty four-paned window sat behind the wooden chair of the desk. Murky sunlight cut through the glass and spread itself lazily over the papers. Ruffling around with delicate fingers, she searched for a spare bit of parchment. As she shuffled the papers, a small yellow shape flitted to the floor and sat unnoticed by her foot. Aimée tried not to think about the act that she was doing, searching the office of a man she hardly knew. Just as discomfort started to float over her as she rummaged through Javert's things, she spotted an old fountain pen and spare piece of parchment.

"Finally," she sighed as she dipped the tip in the inkwell and started to write.

When she was finished, she blew on the words lightly to try and dry the wet shine of the ink and headed back to the spare bedroom. The sheets and blanket were ruffled, so she quickly made up the bed, smoothing out the linens. She opened the window, made sure no one was standing in the street below, and poured out the water from the basin. Aimée wanted to keep busy…subconsciously trying to find things to keep her mind off of the tragedy that had struck only the day before.

Satisfied that the room was made up nicely, she turned and headed back to the kitchen where Anna was finished with the dishes. The note was folded, the ink finally dry, and Aimée placed it on the end of the kitchen table. Anna gathered up the spare bread and cheese and bundled it all together into her basket.

"Shall we go, mademoiselle?" Anna asked, slipping back into her formality.

Aimée gave a sad nod. She was not ready to face the outside world, face the horror that she had left on the other side of the Javert's door after he led her inside his home. She hoped he would not be offended from their leave. After all, she left a note…a very kind note, it seemed to her.

The street was loud and bustling as they closed the door behind them.

Javert wet his lips with his tongue as the salt spray stung against his face. He immediately regretted doing so as his mouth filled with salt, parching his throat. He looked out over the ocean, musing of how punishing of a trick it was for God to make that much water undrinkable.

God has been cruel recently, Javert thought bitterly as he paced the top level of the shipyards, listening to the chants of the prisoners and the groan of the incoming ship. The mast of the great vessel was crooked and the sails torn. It had tried to sail through the storm that had hit the night before. No doubt the rain and wind had been ten times more unforgiving on the open ocean.

Javert looked down at the port with stony green eyes. The thick ropes were covered with scummy algae and crusted from the saltwater. He knew just how painful it was to pull on those thick hemp coils with bare hands. New prisoners without the protective callouses had their hands shredded within the hour. On a calm day, you could see the streaks of red in the water. However, even with this knowledge, Officer Javert had no pity for them.

He wondered about Aimée Lamenté as he stood atop the stone wall, the very same wall that he had found the girl curled up and frightened in the rain. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked towards the side barrier where he had found her, huddled and soaked to the bone. He shook the thought from his head and tried to replace it with the picture of her curled up and safe in front of his hearth.

The chanting below him stopped and a high whistle rang out. These prisoners were ready to be changed with a new batch to work. He remembered the slip of paper he held in his pocket and quickly made his way down the slick stone steps. Javert prayed that his footing was sure.

Javert had parole business to see to on this day. His lip curled as he surveyed the crowd for the man he needed. A thief by the name of Jean Valjean. The man was to be relieved from duty, but he was going to be on parole for the rest of his life. Javert had seen to that. He didn't trust anyone in these shipyards to be released without some sort of lasting penalty.

Standing next to the line of shuffling prisoners, Javert looked for the man he needed. He found him, scrawny and covered with scars and filth. Placing a baton as a barrier, Javert stopped the man, the heavy chains that held his neck and wrists dragging along the slick stone. Looking him up and down, Javert wondered how strong Valjean was. He had always wondered, to tell the truth. He had seen the men work tirelessly, lifting things heavier than even Javert could manage, yet the prisoners were wiry, skinny from their small portions of broth and bread. Javert had recognized Valjean as a rope leader, near the front and hauling with all his might.

His distaste narrowing his eyes, Javert instructed the prisoner to retrieve the broken mass and soaked flag of the ruined ship. He hid his surprise well as Valjean actually lifted the thick wood and drug the flag to Javert's feet.

Finished with his games, Javert handed the prisoner his papers.

Once the business was seen to, Javert watched Valjean leave, the thick chains around his neck removed and sitting in one of the younger guard's hands. The felon was skinny, but strong from years of pulling ships. He had proven his strength in a quite amazing feat. A dark beard clung to his jaw, much longer and unkempt than Javert's own short scruff. At first, Valjean stumbled on the slick steps that led to his freedom, and Javert smiled coldly without realizing what he was doing. Shaking his head, he turned and set out to the other exit of the shipyards, the one closer to his home. He just wanted to wipe the salt from his face. Long hours at the yards and hardly any sleep had sapped his strength. The muscles of his neck and back ached from his light doze in the stiff armchair. All the man wanted to do was go home and go to sleep in a proper bed.

Once he was away from the sea, the cloudy air had changed to a bright cerulean sky. Patrons of the city were out and about in the square and along the main road. A few monger stands had set up, but nothing near a full-fledged market. Javert's eyes fell on the red cross of the hospital and he swallowed past his discomfort. No doubt Gérard Lamenté was still at the funeral home, even though the sun was starting to lower in the sky. Tomorrow, a funeral procession would move through the streets. Javert pictured Aimée's stormy blue eyes peering out at him through a veil of black. She would look pale in a grieving dress. The young woman would no doubt be crying as she followed the caskets of her mother and stillborn brother. His heart clanged as he pictured her in more misery.

Javert lowered his head as he walked, suddenly only interested in watching his shoes as his eyebrows furrowed together.

He arrived at an empty house, but traces of his guests still lingered in the air as some invisible, senseless whisper. Javert picked up the note on the table and read silently, his brows still knitted together from his walk home.

Dear Javert,

Forgive Anna and I, we could not stay to thank you for your kindness in person. I wish we could have, but I need to find my father and help him. You have been so kind to me and I've managed to owe you my life twice in recent days past. I cannot thank you enough for letting me stay in your home…for you finding me at the shipyards before someone else did. I hope to see you soon, so I can fully thank you in person, because I'm afraid this letter doesn't do my gratitude justice.

You are a kind man,

Aimée Lamenté

P.S. Anna and I left you some ham for your dinner…which I'm sure you don't want because it's probably going to be unbearably salty when you eat it. You did say that the salt air from the shipyards makes everything brackish…Maybe I'll bring some pastries instead.

By the time Javert was done reading, his face had relaxed and he exhaled a large amount of air though his nose as the corners of his mouth gently curled upwards in the privacy of his home. There, on the table sitting on a kitchen cloth, was a healthy serving of ham, the circular bone still sitting at the center of the meat.

A welcome change from soup, cheese, and bread, Javert thought as he folded the note and walked to his study. One look at his desk and he knew that they had gone through his papers in search of something to write with. He shook his head, wondering if he wanted to reorganize and arrange everything back together again. He looked at the setting sun through the window and decided against it. As he turned to leave, something on the floor caught his eye. Next to the chair sat the now dried daffodil that Aimée had insisted on giving him the day the two had first met. Stone-faced, Javert picked it up and tucked it into his pocket, the same pocket that housed his stained handkerchief. He had forgotten where he had moved it.

Then, he went upstairs and washed the stubborn salt from his skin, scrubbing until he was sure there were no traces of it left. Patting his face dry, he headed over to the wardrobe and hung up his dark uniform jacket. Stretching his neck once it was freed from the stiff collar, Javert headed back downstairs where he dined on thick slices of ham. After his meal, he contemplated reading, but the moment he opened his book and tried to read the words, pictures of Aimée cloaked in black mourning dress spiked through his head. Javert shook the images from his head as best he could, but then, in Aimée's place, he thought of the inmate Valjean, now free on the streets.

As much as he tried to picture the inmate, all he could see was Anton's face grinning a sly smile at him as he slunk his way to freedom. Inmates on parole had always unsettled Javert. He did not trust Valjean at all, no matter how small of a crime he had originally committed.

With a sickening tightening of his chest, Javert realized that men never change. He stared at empty nothingness as he comprehended that Gérard will always be corrupted by business, Anton would harm out of lust, and now Jean Valjean, a man thrust back out onto the streets, would continue to steal and rob.

Trying to escape his thoughts, Javert retreated back upstairs and collapsed on his bed, fully exhausted from a day of work and a sleepless night. The last thoughts that graced behind his eyes were of Valjean's chains being lifted from him and Aimée's eyes under a black veil.