Hey there! Sorry for the wait, i've had to do some planning. This is a shorter chapter, kind of a filler, but full of fluff!
NOTE: We explore Javert's first name too.
XXIV: Whole Again
The air in the office grew muffled and silenced around Javert and Aimée. Aimée fiddled with the buttons of his coat, running her fingers over the smoothness of them and the roughness of the wool. Javert lifted his chin from her head and she pulled away and looked up at him. His brow was furrowed and Aimée huffed a sigh. Tentative fingers reached up and traced the lines of his worry. He watched her, unused to the tender touch of a woman and allowing himself to be enveloped in it.
"You're like an old bull," Aimée mused aloud. "Strong, handsome, a little stubborn."
Javert gave her a small smile. "Handsome?"
She shrugged. "Well…at least I think so."
He wanted to tell her she was beautiful then, that she was stunning, kind, and perfect, but he was too nervous to speak the words. Her fingertips graced over his brow, his temples, and the crinkles that spidered their way from his eyes. He reached up, captured her hand in his, and allowed himself to press a kiss to her hand. Aimée froze, her eyes on him and Javert forced himself to be drug back to the present, out of the small cocoon that had wrapped around them.
"Aimée, you said your father has been gone for some time now?"
She nodded. "He said she was going back to Toulon, something for the factory. Never said how long he'd be gone."
She grew weary then, almost sad. Her voice trailed away in a silent murmur and Javert cocked his head to the side as he studied her.
"You are worried about him." It left his mouth as a statement, not a question or observation.
The woman turned away from him and allowed herself to wipe her eyes. Aimée was indeed worried. Her father had disappeared before, but never out of town with so little explanation. She found herself frustrated with Gérard. Aimée would always worry and fret over him only to be rewarded with demeaning slurs or cold gazes. Why was she worrying so much now?
"When he was in the jail so long ago, he was at the docks, wasn't he?" Aimée spat, suddenly bitter. It tasted like bile in her throat when she began to realize just how much of a pig her father was, a cruel, uncaring pig that would not hesitate to leave her behind.
"I found him with a prostitute," Javert answered. He had wanted to lie to her, but decided she deserved better than deceptions. Javert stood very still and watched as a hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. Protectiveness blossomed in his ribcage and he swallowed back the urge to lunge and wrap his arms around her again.
Wiping her eyes with the bottom of her palm, she turned her eyes back to him. "Will you walk me home?"
Javert nodded, going and dousing the lamps around them as Aimée stood by the door. Her body had shrunk again, her inner glow of happiness and warmth dulled away by worry and disgust. Aimée wanted to spit, wanted to rid herself of the image of her father snuffling a prostitute of the shipyards. When she had seen them before, they all looked sick, filthy, sweat and salt grime clinging to their skin like a dirty film. But Javert was here with her, and she couldn't help but give a small sigh as her heart flipped when he passed her, his arm brushing against hers as he led the way out of the office. He turned and locked the door behind him. Extending an arm, he bid Aimée to walk ahead of him to the front door of the jail. The bars of the cell sat in the center of the room, a dark ribcage empty of a heart and lungs. The night air was damp with early spring dew and cool. Aimée felt a strong hand at her back and she shuffled closer to Javert, the wool of his uniform brushing against her forearm every other step and making her feel safe.
The walk was silent, but both of them found that they wished it was longer. Aimée's house loomed in front of them and Javert allowed her to reach behind and thread her fingers through his. He was confident that no one would see them in the darkness, everyone was asleep with their families.
Except for the two of them, no family to speak of anywhere near.
You have her. She has you, Javert thought, following her up to her front door. She pulled out a key from a hidden pocket in her dress and the door unlocked with a faint click. Javert allowed himself to be led inside. One lamp was lit in the dining room where the butler had left it before he had gone home. Besides that, the home seemed to be empty.
Aimée looked at him and smiled, "Wait in the dining room, please."
Javert gave her a nod and made his way to sit down. She glanced at him and hurried up the stairs. She checked to see if Gérard had managed to come home. Her heart panged a little with concern when she saw the undisturbed linen pressed neatly along his mattress. Footsteps were quiet on the stairs as she descended back down. Aimée saw Javert still standing in the dining room, just barely on the edge of the lamps orb of light.
"He's not home," she said, pulling out a chair and offering for Javert to sit down before she retreated into the kitchen. Javert was about to politely decline and take his leave, but then he watched, transfixed as she craned her head back and tousled it with her hand. It bounced like weightless sunlight and Javert couldn't blink or look away as she gathered it over her shoulder, her pale skin almost glowing in the dull light. He felt his mouth fill with cotton.
Aimée found a spare loaf of bread and brought it out to the table. She set it on the polished wood and tore off a piece, ignoring the crumbs that sprinkled along the tabletop. "Well, are you going to sit down?"
Javert sat, under her spell, and watched her eat. She chewed once, then twice, and set down her piece. Tearing at the loaf again, she handed it to Javert. "Here, have some."
The crust crackled pleasantly when he bit into it and he brought up a hand to brush the crumbs from his beard. The two chewed in silence for a moment, not uncomfortable at all.
Aimée tilted her head back. "Suppose he never comes back, Javert."
"Don't say that."
"I shouldn't. But I'm angry with him now. He always does this, stays away for days at a time with no explanation. Or, if he decides to give me one, it's vague."
Her head lifted and she gave a rueful smile, "I suppose I could go to Paris with you then."
Javert barely managed to swallow his bit of bread. Aimée leaned forward, propping her elbows up on the smooth wood and holding up her chin with her hands "How old are you, Javert?" she asked out of the blue.
The crumbs on the table suddenly became very interesting as Javert turned his attention to them. He didn't answer.
"If you don't answer, I'll have to guess." The playfulness in her tone did little to help him relax. Admitting his age would bring to crashing clarity the inappropriateness of this whole thing, this whole friendship or relationship or whatever it was between them. Javert had hoped with all his heart that he would be able to ignore it, even prayed to God that age would disappear.
"Come on…" Aimée pleaded. Her eyes widened in pleading and Javert made the mistake of glancing up into irresistible shades of the ocean.
"I am forty-three." The truth was pulled from him quietly.
She squinted. "I would've guessed fifty."
The crease between his eyebrows furrowed in indignation and he frowned. Aimée smiled at him, thinking he looked very much like a stubborn old bull.
"I'm just teasing you."
"That wasn't funny," he retorted, picking at his bread.
"It was kind of funny."
"No, it was not."
"You're right. Your old age isn't anything funny at all. In fact, it's frightening."
"Aimée."
Her eyes softened and she smiled wider at his discomfort. She enjoyed this, not teasing him, but being able to talk to him naturally. He was sitting at her own table, sharing bread with her and allowing himself to open up to her mischievous quips.
"I'm sorry," she said through her soft, smiling lips. Javert watched her, pulled off a piece of bread, and fiddled with it before popping it in his mouth.
Javert couldn't help but feel that the silence that surrounded him was slightly uncomfortable.
"What's your first name?" Aimée asked, cocking her head and easily slicing through the quiet.
"I'm not too fond of my first name."
"Me neither."
This surprised him. "Why? Your name is…" Your name is what? Beautiful? "…nice," he finished.
Aimée smiled. "What is it? Make you a deal, you tell me your first name and then you can ask a question."
Javert sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "My first name is Mattheiu." His voice was very quiet.
"Mattheiu Javert," Aimée said, tasting the full name and rolling it around in her mouth. She decided she liked the way it sounded, so she said it again. "Mattheiu Javert."
Javert couldn't help but feel light when her voice made his name sound like gold.
"That wasn't so hard," Aimée said, giving him a smile. "Was it? Now…you get to ask me something."
The man looked across the table from her, his fingers tapping slightly on the crusty bread in his hand. He shrugged. "When I stopped contacting you, did you think about me?" he found himself asking. Immediately, Javert felt embarrassed by his question.
Aimée stood, "Wait here," and then she turned and disappeared up the stairs. Javert was left to sit alone with his bread. The crumbs watched him from the wood of the table and he couldn't help but feel almost weak. No one in his adult life had cared enough to ask for his first name. No one. He even doubted the Parisian courts knew it. To them he was just Inspector Javert, cold, serious, harsh in the face of the law and swelling with the pride of uniformed duty. Javert began to realize that he was starting to split into two sides of himself. The man his work knew and the man that would thaw in the beautiful face of Aimée Lamenté. A man that would touch her hair and kiss her lips, hold her hand and lose himself in her eyes.
She returned holding a small cedar chest. Standing behind him, she reached around and placed the little box on the table. Javert could feel how close she stood as he lifted the little metal clasp and opened the lid. Inside was a bundle. His stark handwriting stared back at him and he felt Aimée loop her arms around his neck and lean over, resting her chin on his shoulder.
"I kept them all," she said, her cheek brushing against his when she spoke. "Every last one."
Javert thumbed through the stack, not able to read what he had wrote. Probably promises of visits or words of missing her. His stomach twisted when he realized that her letters should be sitting in his own box of memories, but they had long since turned to ash. He felt his head loll to the side, pushing against her gently. The woman next to him sighed through her smile.
"I should go, Aimée."
He felt her arms tighten around him and she buried her face in his shoulder. "I don't want you to…."
Javert's eyes closed and a growing heat began to rise into his body. The feeling of being wanted, of being needed, was something he was beginning to covet. And hearing those words out of Aimée's mouth nearly sent shivers down his spine. However, with that came fear. He had never loved a woman before. Sure, Javert had felt strong infatuations, maybe even some fancies in his youth, but never what he felt when he looked at Aimée. The strength was new to him…and new things were frightening.
The chair grunted against the wood as Javert stood. Aimée's arms slipped to loop around his middle and her forehead pressed behind his shoulder. Javert's hands rose and enveloped hers and he heaved a sigh.
"Mademoiselle…life is cruel to the both of us."
"I know," her voice was muffled as she pressed her face farther into his body, hoping to hide away.
Javert idly traced his fingers along her small knuckles. Her voice was quiet from behind him. "My mother's name was Melanie. She had brown hair, freckles-"
"…and a gap in her teeth." Javert's voice was a quiet murmur and he couldn't help but think of her in that graveyard, clad in black and staring at the dirt that covered her mother and infant brother.
Javert felt Aimée's arms loosen and he turned to face her. He bent his head to meet her and felt the world slip away, replaced only by the warm caress of her lips. She smiled against him and kissed him back, feeling one of his hands go to the side of her face and the other thread its way through her hair. Aimée stepped even closer to him, looping her arms underneath his and pressing her hands flat against his back. The kiss grew, deep need flowing into a passion that momentarily sucked the breath from her lungs. She cautiously touched her tongue to his lip, flooding her senses with his taste, and felt her legs grow weak when Javert opened his mouth to welcome her to him.
Nothing in the world existed to Javert. Aimée was in his arms and he was drowning in her, her smell, the taste of her mouth, the silk of her hair on his palm. He let himself forget about age or Paris, forget about everything but her.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Javert looked down at her and felt the puff of her breath on his chin. Her eyes were wide, her ocean searching. He reached up and traced the side of her face, leaning forward and kissing her nose.
"I should go," he said again and Aimée shivered from the deep huskiness that had dropped into his voice. Her eyes grew sad, her arms still tight around him. He kissed her again, less passionate than before, and much shorter, but it still sent shivers down her spine. Aimée's arms fell away and he took her hand, pressing his lips to her as he stepped towards the door.
"Goodnight, Aimée," he said, his voice still deep.
Blinking, she grew mischievous. "Goodnight, Mattheiu," she said with a smile. Javert gave her a scowl, yet she knew it was far from serious, before he stepped into the entryway and slipped out the door.
Aimée stood for a moment before she grabbed the lamp from the table and her letter box before she made her way upstairs in the empty house. The stars watched her brush her hair, step out of her dress, and climb under the covers. Aimée's mouth was still warm and she still tasted Javert from the kiss. She fell asleep with a smile.
Ending note: I picked Matthieu because it can be roughly translated back to "Gift of God", which i think can sort of tie in with our dear Javert. Also, i never explained, but Aimée is translated back to "loved one," or something near to that.