Hey guys! 'Nother chapter for you all! Love to hear what you think, as always. Enjoy!

XXX: What Was Once Alone

Javert stood in the doorway, staring at the room in front of him. He couldn't deny how painfully empty it was, pitiful and dusty. The house had sat abandoned for nearly six years, an officer had once lived there with his family, but they had moved out when the young man died from disease of the lungs. Ever since then, it was empty, the air inside its walls growing stale and dusty. A maid had come in and cleaned, put on fresh linens, swept, mopped, cleaned out the hearth downstairs, and replaced the washbasins and pitchers. When he first arrived, the judge he reported to had arranged for his belongings to be shipped from the Traveler's Pride, the tavern where Javert had been staying before he was requested back into Paris. Javert had gone around the home and lit a few lamps. When his luggage arrived a few hours ago, Javert had waved off the delivery man, preferring to handle the cedar chest himself.

He managed to carry it up the stairs and push it to the foot of his bed. Then he had gone downstairs and retrieved the other trunk full of his clothes. He neatly placed them in his wardrobe, making sure everything was straight and pressed, before he went back downstairs. Javert settled down in the kitchen, empty and bare, and realized he had forgotten to buy food. He sat down at the small table and looked out the window. It was long past dark. No place would be open. Heaving a sigh through his nose, Javert leaned forward and placed his hands on his temples, closing his eyes. Swallowing past the grumble of his stomach, Javert sat like that for a moment before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. The satin still flowed like cool water over his fingertips and Javert cocked his head to the side as he stared at the square intently. He laid it flat on the wood surface of the table and smoothed it out with his hands, pulling the corners and lining up the edge perfectly to the end of the tabletop. He fiddled with it for a moment, making it as perfect as he could, pulling a particular corner minutely and squinting a little in concentration. When he was content with its exact placement, Javert leaned back in his chair and stared at the two stains. They whispered to him, reminded him of the woman he loved and lost. Reaching into his other pocket, he pulled out the little velvet box. He set it next to the handkerchief, moving it so it was just as perfect. Flicking open the lid with his finger, he watched the dark sapphire sparkle with the memory of her eyes. Javert felt his mouth turn down harshly and he clenched his eyes shut.

Nights like this were once very common for him. He would sit up, stare at his belongings, read the letters that she had kept and run his fingers over the stains of red and kohl. He leaned forward until his tired, lined forehead was graced by the cool touch of satin and he inhaled deeply, wracking his brain to try and remember the vanilla and lilac of her skin. Javert was rewarded with the dusky scent of the wool of his pocket. In a moment of near crippling weakness, Javert pressed the stains to his lips and felt his jaw tighten. Her name escaped his lips in one ragged breath and he lifted his head to stare at her ring. The distant memory of her laughter shot through his ears whenever the sapphire glinted in the murky light. When the pain grew too much in Javert's chest, he closed the box and pocketed it. He tried his best to hope. She could be anywhere in this city. Everyone came to Paris. If Valjean was there, the possibilities were endless.

Carefully, gingerly, Javert folded up the handkerchief and cradled it in his hand as leaned over and doused the lamp before he climbed the stairs back to his bedroom. The night closed around him and his stomach growled again, but he ignored it, focusing on the glow of his bedroom, the satin in his hand heating his skin. In the room, he knelt and gently opened up the chest and placed the ring box inside. Closing the lid gently, he stood back up and headed to his bed. He sat on the edge of the stiff mattress and placed the satin on the bedside table before he leaned over and started to remove his shoes. Leaning back up, Javert undid the stiff collar of his jacket and removed it, relieved once the heavy blackness was off his shoulders. It had killed him in the early June sunlight, and he was happy to be rid of it. Javert was pleased to see that the maid who had readied the house had left him a pitcher of water and a bar of soap. He stripped down to just his trousers, his chest bare, and cleaned himself.

The night was warm enough, Javert slept without a shirt in his pants, sprawled out on his bed above the covers. He craned his neck, trying to see out the large window that sat across the room to his left. However, it was too dark to see much. He lay in his bed for a moment, but found that sleep wasn't going to come for a while. Furrowing his brow, Javert turned over and stood up. The man pulled on an undershirt and neared the window. He opened it, lifting it in its pane and looked down. A balcony stretched out nearly ten feet in front of his building, two bronze eagles perched on either corner. Cautiously, Javert climbed out his window and stood solidly on the ledge. The night was clear and warm, the stars staring down at him like they always did, watching his struggles and successes. He could see the multicolored masterpiece of Notre Dame, its large bell towers casting shadows over the city. He neared the edge, his feet dangerously close to the Javert tipped his head upwards, watching the stars, his downturned green eyes glinting as he wondered what stretched out beyond the twinkling lights, how far away the gates of heaven stood.

Days passed, and Aimée found herself pressed close to a wall, watching in the night. She was wearing dark trousers, shocking for a woman, but necessary for the type of job she needed to complete, with a ruddy brown shirt. Her hair was pulled away in a tight braid. Éponine crouched behind her, wearing men's clothes as well, her hair tied up away from her face. The young girl's heart had stopped when she heard the faint clop of hooves on cobblestone and Aimée pushed her down, hidden in the shadows. Aimée held her breath as she looked out over the street. When she was happy that no one had spotted them, she peeked her head around the corner, keeping one hand extended to block Éponine from moving.

"Ok, the coast is clear, but we have to hurry," Aimée said, standing and slipping out the alley and into the street. The two women hurried, slinking to the shadows like two cats. Before, Aimée wasn't afraid to walk about in the open with Gavroche toting at her side, but this was a different job entirely. This called for stealth.

"Where are we going again?" Éponine whispered as they flitted from shadow to shadow, stopping every now and then to listen.

"To the river side, past the Palais de Justice, there will be a boat there, that's where we pick up our rifles."

"That's the busiest part of the city!" Éponine exclaimed in a whisper.

"Exactly, easy to slip away if we're followed or spotted. Just trust me, I've been doing this for years."

"Alright," Éponine said warily.

As they neared the river, the scummy stink of the Seines's waters crowded their senses and Aimée ducked down a small culvert. Éponine's nose curled when she neared it, but she was relieved to see that it was just a rain duct and not connected to the sewers. Hunching over, she slipped in behind Aimée. The blonde woman looked at her, her back pressed against the slick stone.

"Ok, we'll follow this down to the riverside. There will be a small boat waiting there for us. We'll grab the rifles, bundle them up, and head back to the shop."

"Right," Éponine said, nodding. The excitement made her bite her lip and her eyes widened.

Aimée gave her a smile. "This is the most dangerous part. If you can make it through this, I might reconsider hiring you permanently."

Éponine grinned, but it was wiped away quickly when Aimée hurried down the duct, bidding her accomplice to follow. The two scuttled along like rats, their footsteps light and fleeting on the damp stone culvert. It grew narrower as they went, and Aimée could feel the stone brushing along both her arms as they went along. The ceiling ducked and soon they were nearly bent over in half trying to squeeze through the tunnel. Up ahead, she felt the gust of breeze, the fishy smell of the Seine's waters floating along with it. Aimée was relieved when she neared the edge of the culvert. The green, murky waters flowed thickly below her feet, nearly three hundred yards across. An arched bridge hung over the waters about a quarter of a mile up and on the other side, the commanding silhouette of the Palais de Justice loomed overhead.

"Where's the boat?" Éponine asked behind her, the tunnel too narrow for her to stand next to Aimée.

"It'll be here," Aimée was sure. She cupped her hands and whistled three times, the sound starting low and then stabbing upwards sharply in a high pitch. The two waited a moment, then, beyond, following the current, the signal was repeated. Aimée smiled when a lantern bobbed in the gloominess. "There," she said, pointing.

The little boat neared them, barely more than a narrow gondola. The man on board was a young fellow, thirty, maybe, with mousy blonde hair tied back in a ribbon. When he neared the culvert, he tossed out a rope. Aimée caught it and tied it to a metal loop stamped into the cement wall around them.

"Pleasure to see you again, Mademoiselle Lamenté," the smuggler said, giving her a crooked grin and taking off his ratty cap in a fake bow.

"Hello, Simon," Aimée said, slipping on board and shaking Simon's dirty hand. "Although I would suggest you keep it down a little. We don't want anyone spotting us."

"Understood," Simon said, leaning over and spitting into the river. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and went towards the back of the boat. Aimée felt it lurch beneath her feet and she extended her arms, trying to balance. "I do prefer you when you are wearing a dress though."

"Hush," she said, watching as he took out a bundle of burlap. "How many?"

"Twenty, quite a haul," Simon grunted, handing her three. Aimée grabbed them and handed them off to Éponine, who was waiting back in the culvert.

"That's more than I had expected," Aimée said, noting how heavy each rifle was when she lifted them into her arms. She noted how far back the shop was, nearly a mile. Ten rifles would be a struggle, for sure.

"Any less wouldn't be worth the risk."

"I suppose."

The metal and wood of the guns clicked together as they worked, and soon they were all transferred over into the gutter.

"How much are the boys giving you for this bunch?" Simon asked, reaching into his pocket and taking out a bundle of dried leaves and sticking it into his mouth. He had gotten a taste of American tobacco when he had traveled there during a trade expedition. Aimée was disgusted by it, it turned his spit into a sordid black sludge.

"I won't take any less than fifteen hundred francs," Aimée said, taking the two sheets of burlap and climbing out of the boat. "Especially since the risk has gone up. More officers in Paris."

"Hmm," Simon said, spitting, "Seems to me that I should've asked for more money from you in the first place."

"Too late, Simon, I already paid you for your services," Aimée teased, giving him a wink and untying the rope. Simon pushed away from the cement wall and gave her another bow before he settled back down into his boat and started rowing.

Aimée watched him disappear in the smelly darkness and turned. "Bundle those up, you take ten and so will I."

"These are going to be heavy," Éponine said, wrapping up half in burlap and grunting when she handed them to Aimée. She was amazed when the weight of the rifles settled into her arms.

"My god!" she coughed, wrapping her arms around the bundle as best she could. "Just, hurry. The sooner we get back, the better.

"Right," Éponine said, making her way down the narrow culvert. It was slow going at first and the two stopped to let their arms rest in the safety of the gutter. "Once we get out in the street, we probably won't be able to rest," Aimée explained. As the rounded walls widened, the going got easier. They had room to carry the rifles more comfortably.

"Alright, there's no one out in the street," Éponine said, setting down the guns and searching the road.

"Ok, see that alley that we came out of? The one to the right and down the road? Go to that one," Aimée instructed.

Éponine nodded and scurried out into the street. Aimée followed suit, clutching at the bundle as best she could. Her arms burned from the weight and her footing was sloppy as she tried to reach the ally as quickly as possible. Back in the safety of the shadows, Aimée leaned against the wall, taking a moment to catch her breath.

"This is unbearable!" Éponine whispered, struggling with the weight of the guns. "Ten guns is too much."

"You wanted to help," Aimée said, getting up and pushing onwards.

"Not so fast!" Éponine pleaded, puffing.

"HALT! Who goes there?" A booming voice bellowed. Aimée and Éponine froze turning and looking behind them. Aimée felt the roar of a command shoot down into her feet and cement her in place, almost causing the rifles to slip from her arms. The pounding of hooves echoed nearer. Someone had seen them dart into the alley.

"What are you doing?" Éponine said, not worried about being quiet now that they were found. "Run!"

Aimée snapped back to attention and turned. Her feet pounded beneath her and her arms screamed from the heaviness of the rifles.

"After them!" harsh voices commanded. The hooves echoed louder and Aimée knew that they were in the side street.

"This way!" Éponine yelled, turning sharply left and running as fast as she could. Aimée could feel her breath escape her quickly and harshly, not providing the air she needed. The guns were so heavy in her arms, and awkward. She felt her legs begin to burn and her footing became sloppy.

"I can't run," Aimée said, the echo of their pursuers a growing roar behind them. "Take these and hide, I'll run back, they'll chase me."

"What? No!" Éponine said, trying to push away the bundle of guns Aimée was stuffing into her arms. The combined weight made Éponine bend over. "You can't! I can't manage these."

"If they catch me, you can hide and wait for help, or stash them and have the boys come back. I'll lie. I'll be fine, go!" Aimée said hurriedly, trying to get Éponine to hide behind some abandoned crates. When the hooves continued to grow louder, Aimée finally gave Éponine a harsh shove, trying to make her understand. "Get out of here, dammit!"

Before her accomplice could protest again, Aimée turned and hurried towards the horsemen. When she was at the mouth of the alley, she darted back out into the open.

"You there, stop! In the name of the law!" The voice almost made Aimée slip and stumble. It was familiar, so familiar….

Then, Aimée actually did stumble when she realized who was commanding her, who was riding her down.

Javert….

It took all of her self-control not to stop and run to him, pull him off his horse. Hold his face in her hands and whisper, "I've found you…."

"If you don't stop, I'm going to shoot!" Javert threatened. Aimée closed her eyes as the world crashed in on her. She slowed, and held her arms in the darkness. The horses neared and she heard them snort and stomp the ground. The sound of trousers sliding across a leather saddle and solid footsteps. She couldn't see him behind her, but she sensed his movement, deliberate and practiced.

"Who is she?" a thick voice asked behind them. Her braid and slender form hadn't fooled anyone, not even in the men's clothes.

Aimée felt thick, calloused hands enclose her wrist and she felt her skin burn. The warmth of his hands was replaced by the clench of cold steel binds. "You're under arrest," she heard him say. There was no doubt that it was Javert. "Why were you running?"

She couldn't bring herself to speak, the lump in her throat suffocating her.

"Answer me," Javert demanded, grabbing onto her arm and spinning her to face him. She Kept her head down as he shackled her other wrist. When he was finished, she decided to lift her head. Aimée tried to stay as calm as possible as she looked into the face of the man she had loved so long ago. Time had been kind to him. He was hardly changed, a little more grey in his beard and hair, a few more lines on his face, but he was still as handsome and commanding as ever. The cold binds on her wrists reminded her that she could not touch him, could not speak.

The only difference was his eye. Pale green and still beautiful to her…but they had hardened. Turned to stone, unforgiving and harsh, judgmental and cruel. If he had recognized her, he did not show it. Javert's face was unchanged and unfazed. However, before she flicked her eyes downwards, she swore she saw the muscles in his jaw grow slack and his neck move with a surprised swallow.

"Everything alright, Chief Inspector?" his partner asked. Aimée glanced up and tried to see him in the gloom, but she couldn't see that well. Her chest was still heaving from her run, but her heart was starting to slow back down to its regular pace.

"Fine, Officer Hoight," Javert said, his eyes not leaving her. "I will take her back to the Palais for questioning. You will continue your patrol. There were two of them."

"You don't need me for assistance?"

Javert grabbed her arm and turned back to the horse, tugging her along unceremoniously. "She is a woman. I am a police officer, I will be fine."

Aimée's eyes darkened. The tone in his voice angered her. This was obviously not the same Javert she had loved nine years ago.

She watched Javert tie a rope from her shackles and loop it to his saddle. He'll drag me like a criminal. Maybe he didn't recognize me after all. I'm a fool.

Aimée looked at the horse, not the same blue roan Ombre that he had all those years ago. This one was huge, black and its eyes were dull with obedience. Javert swung himself up into the saddle and put his heal into the horse's side, clucking his tongue as he did so. The horse took off at a walk back down the way they had come. As she walked along, tied to horse, she gave a glance at Hoight as she neared him. Aimée's nose wrinkled when she noticed how ugly he was.

They rode in silence. Aimée kept her eyes on his back, straight as an arrow in the saddle. His shoulders were as broad as ever. Aimée noticed that a wide hat sat strapped to a saddlebag, not on his head like it should be.

By the time they reached the gates of the Palais de Justice, Aimée's feet were sore and her wrists raw from the rubbing shackles. Her arms had gone numb from the weight of the rifles followed by the rope pulling them as she tried to walk. Javert didn't speak to her when he dismounted and untied the rope from the shackles. Taking her arm again, his grip strong against the soft flesh of her arm, he pulled her to the doors of the Palais. The ornate hall inside was empty, and Aimée found herself craning herself to try and see as much décor as possible. The beauty inside surprised her, she had been expecting bare stone walls and cells everywhere.

Javert toted her down the hall and then to the right. A small brown door greeted them, frosted glass on the front etched with Chief Inspector Javert. He opened it, thrust her inside, followed, and then locked the door. The office was gloomy, only two lanterns lit. Piles of paper lined the walls, looking like pillars rising up from the wood floor. A desk sat in the center, neat and orderly, things lined up and perfect. Only one leather and wood chair sat in front of the desk and cabinets towered on either side.

"What the hell are you doing?" Javert demanded, approaching her, his eyes narrowed and fists clenched. Aimée was taken aback, stepping away from him until she felt the wood of the desk press against the back of her legs.

"That's no way to greet someone," Aimée spat, her own fire flaring against his. "Take these damn things off of me!" she demanded, "My wrists are raw."

Javert looked down at her shackles. "You're under arrest," he said coldly.

"For what!"

Javert was silent, looking at her grubby face, eyes raging in anger. His breath was nearly sucked away when memories crashed down on him, casting Javert into Aimée's ocean. An angry sigh escaped him and he approached her, taking the small key from his belt and undoing her wrist shackles. The skin beneath was red and raw, and Javert had to quickly look away.

"What were you doing, running through the alleyways dressed like….like this?" Javert asked, extending his hand to motion at her clothes while he turned and set the shackles on his desk.

Aimée bit her lip. She felt a lie growing inside her. She spoke before she could stop herself. "I was walking, I usually do it at night. I dress like this so men will leave me alone. I saw someone run and I thought they were a burglar, so I followed. When I heard your horses, I grew frightened, so I kept running."

Javert looked relieved and Aimée's heart clenched. She couldn't bring herself to tell him the truth, not after she had just found him. He was Chief Inspector Javert now, uncaring enforcer of the law. Javert would hate her, arrest her, if he knew the truth.

"You went for a walk."

Aimée swallowed. "Yes."

Aimée watched him shake his head and go to sit behind his desk. He leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. "Where is your father?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Dead. Years ago. Died of disease."

Javert exhaled loudly through his nose and drew his hands away. He looked at her and found it hard to believe that she was really there, standing in front of him, grubby in a man's clothes and dusty hair braided away from her face. When he first met her face in the alley, he felt his knees grow weak, but he was strong. He couldn't let Hoight know about his familiarity with the girl. The soft skin of her wrist beneath his hand sparked him like lightning and it took all of his strength not to sweep her into the saddle with him. When she was forced to walk behind the horse, it pained him like a jab in the side, but it had to be done.

"Tell me what happened in Montreuil?" he asked quietly, searching her face.

Aimée her bottom lip and closed her eyes. She hadn't thought about that in a long while, it had pained her too much, so she had managed to shove it away. "Gérard left for the factory, told me to pack. I went up to his office, I remember it smelled like lap oil, the room was soaked."

Javert watched as she settled down in the chair. He didn't stand, even when he heard her voice crack.

"I wrote you a note, put it in that little cedar chest. Then, a man showed up in a carriage, Thénardier." Javert felt a shot of anger as he thought of the rat's face in the square that day he stopped a fight. Aimée continued, "Gérard came back and he burned the house. I ran outside, hid the box, and then Gérard pulled me to the carriage. We went to the Thénardier's inn and I was forced to work for them."

Aimée looked at him, her eyes shining, but she was not going to cry. Javert noticed then how changed she was. Older, stronger, more independent. She had been alone without family for years, surviving and thriving in Paris.

"We came here and I saved up money for a flower shop. Been there ever since."

"How long has it been?" Javert asked, even though he knew full well how many years.

"Nine. Nine years."

They both sat in silence and they both noticed when it started to grow awkward.

"I've been out of Paris for two years," Javert said, trying to fill the silence, "Anti-smuggling campaign."

Aimée was painfully aware of the cruel irony of his words. He was an enforcer of the law, arresting smugglers and burning shipments, and she was a criminal, bringing illegal rifles to the revolution.

"You haven't changed much," Aimée said, looking over his face again.

Javert swallowed, hoping that her words were meant to be positive. The silence grew again.

Aimée bit her lip, feeling the pinpricks of hot tears behind her eyes. Years of lonliness and emotional strain began to build up inside her, pressing against her walls and making it hard to breath. She felt the room close around her. Aimée bent over and hid her face behind her hands as sobs started to wrack her body.

Javert quickly stood and neared the woman. He wanted to touch her, but was afraid.

"Mademoiselle Lamenté?" he asked. The formality stung his mouth. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and knelt next to the chair. "…Aimée?"

The nearness of him made her look up. His face, once harsh and angry, seemed to melt before her eyes. His mouth was frowning, his downturned eyes worried. She sniffed and reached out, cautiously touching the side of his face, feeling the coarse hairs of his beard. Javert watched her, frozen as he knelt.

"I'm sad," she said, taking her hand away and wiping her eyes, realizing how stupid her words sounded. "I mean, I'm happy, I've found you, but I'm sad. I…I loved you…love you so much, even now, still. But it's not how it was…nine years passed…do we start all over? Do you still even care for me? It's been so long…everything's changed."

Javert sighed and looked down, his brows knit together. "Aimée…look at this," his voice was quit, but rough, almost as if he was hiding back tears of his own. She watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a spall satin square. He unfolded it gently and laid it in her lap. Then he stood and watched her.

"It's a handkerchief," Aimée murmured, running her fingers on the satin. She noticed the two stains, red and black. "…It was your handkerchief. At Beaudet's…then the funeral. You kept it…."

"Seventeen years I've kept that," Javert whispered. "And for these last nine not a day went by that I didn't think about you. Not a day went by where I didn't look for you." His voice rumbled around her and she closed her eyes, listening to it. It sounded like the greatest song.

Aimée sniffed and looked up at him, standing. He was taller than she remembered, stronger. "I'm sorry," she shook her head as more tears threatened her. "I'm sorry I let him take me away…I'm sorry I didn't run, I'm sorry…I'm sorry….." Her tears grew to hiccupping hysterics and Javert couldn't control himself any more. He stepped closer to her and wrapped her in his arms, holding her as tightly as he could as he felt her sobs scream into the cloth of his coat. Clenching his own eyes shut, Javert felt tears streak his own cheeks. Her forehead pressed against the side of his chin and he kissed it, ignoring the grubbiness of her skin.

"Shh…do not be sorry."

Aimée's body slowly stopped shaking from the sobs.

"I missed you so much," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"And I you, Aimée," Javert said, looking to the heavens and thanking God above as he ran his hand down the back of her head and over her braid. "More than you know, mademoiselle."