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nonchalantdanger · 4 years ago

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Lost Souls Wandering

“I have a theory that all artists are lost souls wandering their way back to Paris” -- Atticus.

Heh, I think I’m clever. Arras is won by the French, and we spend a final night in Arras with our characters. This is where my and @theimpossiblescheme‘s AU canon’s diverge a bit, but PLEASE go read Yesterday, Tomorrow, and Today.

In which there is revelry, Roxane finds her way, and an unexpected ally appears:

To give credit where credit is due, the Gascony cadets do nothing by halves. They marched to war with grins, accepted death with a proud upward tilt of their chins, and now they celebrate their victory and toast their lost comrades with songs and wine and drunken dancing. De Guiche has already issued the news that they are to return to Paris in the morning, and the Spanish had retreated far enough that no fear of an ambush could worry them.

Roxane is enthralled by the raucous ongoings of the camp around her; she has been toasted as a goddess of war by nearly all of the men able to stand and walk over to her — and a few more besides — her hand kissed to tingling, and her cheeks near-cramped from smiling. Even so, none of the joy echoing around her can match the comparatively quiet delight that has brightened Cyrano’s adamantine blue eyes to the most saturated of azures. Like chips of lapis-lazuli set within his smile-creased face, Roxane finds herself admiring their gem-like glint from her place seated at his side. Occasionally, he catches her scrutiny, his grin widens, and it takes every willful bone in her body to refrain from leaning over to kiss him again.

Their fire is set a little away from the epicenter of merriment, a quieter refuge for the senior cadets — Cyrano and Le Bret — herself, and De Guiche. A singed hat marks the space in between she and the Comte, its bright peacock plumage marking it as the late Captain Castel-Jaloux’s; he would have joined their circle had he survived.

Roxane is surprised at De Guiche’s presence; by her observation, between his decision to remain with the Gascons during the Spanish assault and the valiant fighting he must have done in the battle, the Comte had discarded his haughty arrogance, replacing it with a small, warm smile and the resigned chagrin of a man who has earned — not purchased — genuine respect from those who do not give it lightly. Cyrano’s distaste for De Guiche has similarly bled into a cool detente since the end of the fighting. To Roxane it is fascinating to see the two, previously so at-odds, sitting with only the pleasant crackling of the fire between them.

Le Bret shifts in his seat, and Roxane hears the crack of his bones across the flames.

Cyrano chuckles. “You are getting old, my friend.”

“Hush.” Le Bret punches him none-too-lightly in his uninjured arm. “Your mouth threatens to be as big as your other appendage.”

Any other man who would make such an implication as Le Bret would have had his guts ribboned on Cyrano’s blade, but the older cadet — and Cyrano’s oldest friend, besides Roxane herself — seems blessed with a rare leeway. Cyrano laughs, takes the blow with remarkable good humor, and helps Le Bret to his feet when the latter announces his goal to obtain more wine before the rest of the company drinks it all. He limps away, favoring his good leg heavily. Cyrano returns to his place just out of Roxane’s reach.

De Guiche, who had stiffened upon the reference to Cyrano’s nose — no doubt remembering his unfortunate companion Valvert’s encounter with the aforementioned feature — relaxes once more, but only for a moment. Something piques his scrutiny; curiosity shifting in his dark gaze. His eyes sweep around the fire, marking the carefully maintained space between Cyrano and Roxane, and the riotous celebrations happening around them. His brows draw together and his eyes narrow further the longer he looks about. Roxane does not know what he is searching for, until De Guiche’s gaze once more returns to flicker between she and Cyrano and the empty space to her right.

Christian, after escorting her to the physician’s tent and confessing the details of his and Cyrano’s ruse, had not been beside her for even a passing moment. He had been gone, off to find the wounded and identify the dead, when Roxane and Cyrano had reentered the world following the revelation of their feelings for each other. He and Cyrano had exchanged words out of her hearing, and parted amicably, but Cyrano has not seen fit to relay the details of his sentiments yet. Roxanne knows he is safe — she had seen him moving about the camp, stumbling between a few other men nought an hour ago — but to be a man’s wife and not be beside him is strange and anomalous. Too strange. Too anomalous.

De Guiche’s slitted eyes fall on her. His look is careful, not triumphant; he is not a man who has just discovered a way to undo the woman who spurned him, nor does he look at her like she is the rack upon which he will torture Cyrano. Roxane, worryingly, does not know what to expect.

The Comte motions an idle hand to the space of their campfire. “Madame...I would have expected your husband not to leave your side...” He does not phrase it as a question, and his gaze flickers deliberately to de Bergerac.

Cyrano, while not privy to the progression of De Guiche’s earlier piecing-together, does not miss the expectant and realizing tone of the Comte’s query. He bristles from his casual slouch with such violent quickness Roxane’s immediate, half-conscious instinct is to reach out and seize his hand where it rests on the log between them to prevent him from doing anything irreparably rash in her defense. She knows she all but gives the change between them away by doing so; for all that she was affectionate with him before, there is a weight to her motion, an honesty of the love she feels for him that she is sure sounds in the air like a bell. More damningly, Cyrano stills at her touch; the enormity of his regard, to stifle his ferociousness at her silent behest, is not lost on Roxane either.

The Comte, ever one for self-preservation, recognizes Cyrano’s murderous intent for what it is. He pales and lifts his hands appeasingly despite his vastly superior tactical position;. “Peace, de Bergerac. I mean neither you nor Roxane any harm.”

Cyrano sneers like he did at the Theatre de Bourgogne. It is an unpleasant baring of teeth. The detente is shattered, and Roxane fears that he will cut himself on the pieces. “You blithely ordered us to our deaths earlier this eve. Forgive me if I am disinclined to take you at your word.”

Many a more battle-tried man has cowered in the face of Cyrano’s particularly fearsome growling; to Roxane’s surprise, De Guiche pulls his shoulders back and continues in a mild, unthreatening tone. he could ruin them both with a few words. Half a day ago, he would not have hesitated, but now he speaks reasonably. “As I said before we all nearly perished in this godforsaken mud, I shan’t leave a lady undefended.”

Cyrano bristles further; his scoff of derision is loud and rough. To Roxane, it is clear that he takes umbrage at the insinuation he would not be defense enough for her. The Comte intuits the same; pointedly, he looks to where Roxane still grips Cyrano’s hand. “It is her husband’s place to defend her, not yours, de Bergerac.”

Cyrano flinches when he hadn’t under the slap of Valvert’s glove. De Guiche’s unsubtle rejoinder strikes true, and Roxane is too slow to anchor Cyrano’s hand in hers before he pales and withdraws it.

De Guiche observes the interaction with interest, wisely tempered by caution. “Despite you both having duped me, I do still possess the power of sight; you have been exchanging glances I can only describe as love-struck since the end of the battle. Christian has avoided keeping company with either of you, his ostensible wife and his closest friend. What has transpired?”

Cyrano, unexpectedly cowed, is silent and still. Roxane, all at once, is inconsolably furious — she cannot stand seeing her love so off-kilter, cannot stand De Guiche’s presumptuous inquiry, cannot stand that Christian had not thought to maintain the ruse, and that she was such a fool. A breath; she fashions her anger into a mental blade like the one she’d carried during the siege and turns it on De Guiche.

“You have never been deserving of my secrets, monsieur. You are too bold to ask for them so soon after attempting to ruin my happiness.”

De Guiche concedes with graceful shame. “You are not wrong, I am not too proud to say. As for why I ask...” he hesitates, shifting to include Cyrano in his address, “I am also not too proud to admit my life was in your hands today, de Bergerac, and I find it returned, and myself the debtor.” He gestures aimlessly, “I wish to help the both of you.”

“You assume we need it.” The guttural notes of Cyrano’s ire have faded, but there is still an edge, and his eyes are a sharp, wary blue. Roxane nearly looks to the heavens at the impetuous nerve of him, so bold as to be brash. God, she loves him, and yet she wants to shake him by his ash-smudged collar. She feels De Guiche’s gaze fall solely on her, and she sighs her acknowledgement that his point has merit.

“You might.” The Comte mutters softly. “You cannot fight all of Parisian high society, nor stop the insidious talk with the force of your wit. Worse still, you are not the vulnerable one.”

It is Roxane’s turn to take umbrage, and this time she does not intend to give it back. “Do not presume to tell me my own weaknesses, Comte. I am all too aware of my position as a prize to be won, irrevocably tarnished the moment I capitulate. You not so long ago cajoled, begged, nearly forced your infatuation upon me. The Cadets were sent to war because of your sour vindictiveness upon falling short in your pursuit.” She nearly snarls in her fury, but she sighs it away, “Loathe as I am to admit it, you are not nearly the worst carrion gossip who would feed on the corpse of my good reputation.” She waves an airy hand at De Guiche, whose gaze had fallen to his boots at her mention of his campaign to bed her — At the same moment, Cyrano’s gaze had glinted dangerously silver — and De Guiche’s conscience-stricken features rise level with Roxane’s once more. She prompts him, “Pray tell, how you might help, Comte.”

De Guiche hesitates. He seems to take her charge with utter seriousness. Roxane’s regard for his political mind rises, barely; De Guiche, at the very least, knows that if he makes any genuine attempt to tarnish her, Cyrano will kill him, son-in-law to the Cardinal or no.

For all that he is formidable, Cyrano would be hard-pressed to reach De Guiche before Roxane cut him down herself.

“I…” De Guiche clears his throat officiously. “How many know that you and Christian wed?”

Roxane laughs lowly, “The entire camp, seeing as I kissed him in front of all of them. Called him husband. Little did I know the man who’d inspired me to cross a war zone was Cyrano.”

De Guiche winces at the bitter irony in her tone, but Roxane can see that he is intrigued. “Forgive me if I pry: I do not have the fully story. I may be better equipped to manipulate the situation in your favor if I could…know how you came to be…so utterly in love.” He says the last quietly. Roxane is surprised to register hollow longing in the words, a wistfulness she did not expect from such a shrewd man as De Guiche. For all his wooing of her, she’d never expected him to treasure tender emotions past their usefulness in manipulation. She feels a smidge of regret for misjudging yet another person in her life, at least in that small way.

She looks to Cyrano; it is primarily his tale to tell. His eyes are shocking in their cerulean shade, and there is a vulnerability in them that, if abused, could tear him apart. For all that his body and soul is steeled, his heart, Roxane realizes, has always been fragile. She wishes she had known; she would have protected it better. Maybe then he wouldn’t be looking at her now with such trepidation, such too-shy hopefulness. His resolve solidifies. He tips his head to her, then to the ground. He huffs a fortifying breath, then begins.

De Guiche listens attentively as Cyrano relays their tale. He begins at the theatre, with the burst of joy at being seen. He glosses over the despair caused by Roxane’s desires, but then moves into the part of the story she does not know herself. Cyrano’s artful words illustrate the grand scheme to woo her, the melding of two men into one, an author of divine prose and sublime turns of phrase with the face of a Grecian hero. De Guiche frowns at Cyrano like he is seeing a different man in the cloak of a de Bergerac, nonplussed at the self-consciousness, the crippling doubt that stayed his words from ever leaving the pages signed by another’s name. Roxane cannot stop tears from falling down her face. She wipes them away before Cyrano can see.

She tells her part too. It takes less time, but its importance can’t be overlooked, as she describes Christian’s honesty and Cyrano’s admittance. Their ardent revelations to each other. Their lack of foresight, in terms of their reputations. She falters as her words run up to the present; Cyrano’s hilt-calloused hand enfolds both of hers where they rest in her lap. It soothes her to feel the strength in him.

When she looks up, De Guiche’s eyes have fallen to their joined hands. He looks moved. The way he subtly swipes a knuckle under his eyes speaks to it.

After a moment, he smiles. It is a surprisingly kind expression on such a saturnine countenance. “You are both…unspeakably lucky to have found each other.” His gaze darkens, “I will not jeopardize that. I swear on my…recently reclaimed honor…” He has the wherewithal to jest lightly at his own expense, and a line of tension across Cyrano’s shoulders relaxes by a fraction.

“Nothing is yet dire. I have some…influence in certain circles that could smooth this over.”

De Guiche explains a potential plan. It involves quietly annulling the oaths Roxane and Christian made to each other, and explaining to the Cadets the truth, up until the point where they were married, and skipping to the reveal that Christian had asked Cyrano to continue writing the letters. Cyrano takes that upon himself; the Cadets respect the sanctity of the Guard House like few other places, and if he swears them to secrecy there, they will keep it on pain of a solid, inescapable pummeling.

Roxane swears to speak to Christian; they still have words that need exchanging, if only to resolve any festering hurt and misunderstanding.

Then De Guiche continues unexpectedly. “When you arrange the wedding…I should like…I would offer to cover any expenses you incur, for the ceremony.” He wrings his hands; Roxane has never seen him squirm before now. “I can also be your official witness, and speak to the sanctity of the vows in society.”

It is a gracious offer. Cyrano’s formidable nose wrinkles with suspicion for the first time in hours. He says what Roxane is thinking, “Such favors usually accrue a cost. What do you want from us?”

“Nothing, truly.” De Guiche sighs when Cyrano’s eyes narrow to chips of sapphire. “I swear it. I meant it, before, when I said I owed you my life, Cyrano. I also owe you an apology, Madame de Robin, for my uncouth behavior before.” He bows shallowly from his seat.

Roxane feels something close to relief wash cool through her chest for the first time in days. She allows herself a small smile. “You are forgiven, Comte, but I expect an extraordinarily extravagant wedding present.”

“Of course.” De Guiche, gratifyingly, is pale with relief too. She wonders at her luck — her near misfortune — of causing a Comte, a cadet, and a veritable hero to be afraid of her. She would like to get used to it.

She thinks Cyrano’s awe enough as she looks to him again. Gently, as if seeing the force of her regard in her eyes, he takes her hand in both of his and kisses her knuckles. For all that Cyrano de Bergerac is a force of nature, he tempers her.

De Guiche clears his throat. “I… think I will follow Le Bret’s example.” It is an unsubtle escape to leave them alone. Roxane cares very little.

Despite how many details they must coordinate and futures they must discuss, neither she nor Cyrano speak. He shifts close enough for her to pillow her head on his shoulder, her arms folded through the crook of his, and they regard the fire and the brightening stars on their last night in Arras.

Paris, and a life together, awaits them.

#cyrano de bergerac #cyrano #roxane #christian (mentioned)#De Guiche #Le Bret #This is a bit rushed and I APOLOGIZE #I hope you like it #It's been a long time coming #Hope it lives up to the hype #I was inspired by the shocking character development you gave De Guiche so here's so more #romance #OOF It's almost 1AM what am I doing #being a writer and being waaaaayyy behind

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little-linda · 20 days ago

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Valvert sweep 😍

M/M Couples

Final

Valjean and Javert :

"Javert recognizes Valjean in M-sur-M after decades of not seeing him by "the strength of his loins" among other things. Unlike in the musical Javert isn't actually completely obsessed with Valjean, but he consistently recognizes him throughout the years almost solely by his strength. Javert has the line "You annoy me. Kill me, rather." Valjean spares his life when he had every reason to end it. They're old man yaoi what else could you want."

#specific polls about books #tournament polls #bookblr #m/m ships #inspector javert #jean valjean #javert #les misérables #les miserables #les mis book #les mis #victor hugo #valvert #the brick

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morethanonepage · 5 years ago

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fic titles meme

tagged by @aimmyarrowshigh um -- ages ago??? sorry i’m really behind in responding to things

Look at the most recent 20 (or however many!) fanwork titles on your AO3 account and answer the questions below.

the unconscious conscious

the fire and the flood

a last minute possibility

careful fear, and dead devotion

overflow

stir

need a little time (to wake up)

drive

laid bare

a double bed, and a stalwart lover for sure

the bloom of youth

Washington Square

raw

some strings attached

no assignment for cowards

not what ships are built for

Anything Can Happen (On Halloween)

Adrift

mages against literacy

a boy with a thorn in his side

1. How many are you happy with?

I think I’m just answering in terms of the titles and not the fics themselves (bc the answer would be two in that case; you can guess which two). I like the pun of laid bare a lot, and Adrift is probably the title I call back to the most in the fic itself, if not directly. Washington Square is just meant to be parallel with Notting Hill bc that’s what it’s a fusion of & because the other option would’ve been East Village, which I guess now thinking about it might’ve been better lmfaooooo.

I also like raw, bc as the tags say: “#unpremeditated barebacking #it's a metaphor”. It’s about the intimacy.

2. How many are…not great?

I hate mages against literacy lmfao it’s so lame. I think if I had a better idea for it I would change it now, but also the fic itself is a little ehhhhhh so I also probably wouldn’t bother.

otherwise i’m not SUPER proud of the TWO smiths songs referenced above but. what can i do. that’s my #brand.

there’s also SO many things inspired by songs i just randomly listened to on youtube but like, w/e, titles are hard.

3. How many did you scramble for at the last minute?

ALL OF THEM.

most recently I was casting about for the title to the fire and the flood, even once I had the text of the fic itself uploaded to AO3. I think I had it in drafts already and was still going through potential titles. some of the options i still have in the evernote document I wrote it in:

zephyr

by some glamour change

My faith is sick and my skin is thin as ever

All of which are bad imo. the fire and the flood is from the Vance Joy song, which doesn’t fit the mood of the fic really but I like the -- idk the contrast of the words? Both the fundamentally destructive nature of both fire and flood but also the way they cancel each other out, basically. And they’re both sweeping and epic and idk vaguely biblical and I’m #CatholicTrash, so.

4. How many did you know before you started writing/creating, or near the beginning?

Two -- the unconscious conscious is a phrase comes from some haphazard research I did about ~sex magic back when I first started writing that fic (I should’ve. Like, saved that, I guess???). And a last minute possibility was bc @jessicamiriamdrew was telling me about a film festival she was helping organize, and she mentioned that she’d received one film late and it was a last minute possibility, which I thought was the title of the movie itself (twas not) but I jokingly said that I was going to use it as the title of whatever I wrote next bc I liked the sound of it. et voilà.

5. How many are quotes from songs or poems?

Hmm let’s see:

the fire and the flood -- Fire and the Flood by Vance Joy

careful fear, and dead devotion -- Don’t Swallow the Cap by The National

need a little time (to wake up) -- Morning Glory by Oasis

a double bed, and a stalwart lover for sure -- I Want the One I Can't Have by The Smiths

Anything Can Happen (On Halloween) -- Anything Can Happen On Halloween

a boy with a thorn in his side -- The Boy With A Thorn In His Side by The Smiths

6. How many are other quotes?

no assignment for cowards -- allegedly this is a quote from Ovid (well, the quote itself is, “Love is no assignment for cowards”, but I think it’s cute to skirt around the l word, and if someone knows the full quote that’s a fun little easter egg for them/a shared joke between us)

not what ships are built for -- an old adage of undetermined provenance (”A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for”) but i uh. 100% cribbed it from a Valvert fic I read in 2013. God I’m old.

7. Which best reflects the plot of the story/content of the fanwork?

probably raw.

i mean. they raw. it’s raw...emotionally. i -- that really does say it all.

i also think the onomatopoeic feeling of the word stir (like, the slow susurrant awakening it evokes) really fits the mood of the fic itself. just the soft simplicity of waking up with someone you know and love.

8. Which best reflects the theme of the story?

Adrift, no doubt -- Adrift is probably one of the best fics I’ve written on all levels, including the title, and that’s probably because it’s ALL p thematically tight.

9. Which best reflects the character voice of the story/pov of the fanwork?

Hmm none of them, really? They all reflect my voice which is why so many are lyrics from the Smiths but I really don’t make the effort to tailor fic titles to character voice. maybe a boy with a thorn in his side, by virtue of it being modern au/teen Cassian Andor who’s -- Mexican and simmering with pretentious progressive rage and therefore, also probably a Smiths fan.

10. Which is your favourite title?

hmmm i think tied between raw and Adrift. gotta love those one word titles i guess

(but of fics i’ve written, ever, or at least on AO3, my crowning achievement for titles has to be save an x-wing, ride an ex-stormtrooper. I remember SCRAMBLING to finish that fic bc i was worried someone else was going to poach the name first, BUT THEY DIDN’T and i won.)

#fic titles meme #i'm not tagging anyone bc it's late and i never know who to tag but #you should do this meme it's fun!#queue gardens #longpost

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leofemt · 7 years ago

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and suddenly the memory revealed itself

Madeleine's, the sign reads in pretty, delicate handwriting. The sky is still dark and navy gray, the rising sun unable to pierce its blanket of snowclouds, and the inviting glow of the yellow-tinted light and the scent of coffee spilling out of what appears to be a cafe steals Javert's attention, and he stops for a moment, staring across the street.

valvert, coffee shop au, 4.5k words.

on ao3.

Police Inspector Javert has no vices. He's proud of it- doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't seek companionship through the dark, cold nights.

Except...

One morning, heading into the precinct, customary black greatcoat wrapped tightly around his midsection, stride long and sharp, breath hovering icily in the air, a flicker of warm, incandescent light catches his eye. Ah- it's the small shop building across the street that had, until two months ago, been occupied by a trinket-store that had summarily lost on the expensive rent of a busy Parisian street. He hadn't realized the renovations of whoever had taken the space had completed.

Madeline's, the sign reads in pretty, delicate handwriting. The sky is still dark and navy gray, the rising sun unable to pierce its blanket of snowclouds, and the inviting glow of the yellow-tinted light and the scent of coffee spilling out of what appears to be a cafe steals Javert's attention, and he stops for a moment, staring across the street.

God, he wants some coffee.

Another day, he tells himself, because this morning he's left his apartment in the exact time to arrive at the precinct precisely on time, and any detours will make him late. He exhales into the cold, dimly-lit air, watching the puff of translucent condensation drift and dissipate into the dark, and continues on his way. The general population of Paris is beginning to wake with the sun. An increasing amount of tiny cars and bikes bumble past him, headlights flaring, and the sidewalk around Javert begins to fill with passerby.

~~~~~~

Javert's coffee steams on his desk.

It's not very good coffee. Actually, if one wished avoid mincing words, it's god-awful. Atrocious, terrible- somehow bitter and sour and burnt-acrid and watery at the same time- and Javert, reclaiming his chair and considering the cup, seeming to steel himself to lift the plain mug to his lips and take a sip, only to pull a face and set it back down, can't stop thinking about the scent of the coffee from the shop somehow wafting all the way across the street in the early hours of the morning, seemingly only to taunt him.

"God," he mutters, blaspheming.

At least he has his own office in which to silently lament the death of good caffeine. Outside, a phone rings, and there's a loud clanging and a shout. Javert groans and rubs his temples. His headache feel especially bad today.

A knock.

"Come in," he says.

An officer- Javert doesn't even know his name, he looks wet behind the ears, eyes wide, hair curling onto his forehead- pokes his head in hesitantly.

"Inspector Javert?" He asks.

"That's what they tell me," Javert grumbles.

The boy opens the door fully, revealing three case files in his pale hands. He's definitely a new recruit, probably a patrol cop, Javert thinks.

"I was told to give these to you," the officer mumbles. Javert would tell him to speak up, but he hasn't the energy. His cooling coffee mocks him from his desk, and he scowls back. He grits his teeth and makes a gesture towards the painfully shy officer.

"Yes, yes, give them here." He mutters.

The officer nods, and lingers.

"Thank you." Javert says, gruffly, opening the files without ado. The officer hovers for a moment longer, then awkwardly inclines his head and makes for the door. Javert is already consumed in the files.

The folders the officer have handed him are updates on the higher-profile cases this week- new activity by the Patron-Minette, and Javert feels something in him sink, rubs one hand frustratedly across his stubbled chin.

It's almost the lunch hour. He thinks if he sits here a moment longer, he may just lose his mind before he can lock those bastards up. Javert gathers his greatcoat, black cloth spilling out of his arms, pulls it on, fastening each silver button in meticulous order.

~~~~~~

Madeline's.

Javert hovers outside the door.

It's definitely open. A handful of patrons are already inside, and Javert can see a bright, bubbly blonde girl with her long, silken hair tied back in twin low bunches- she can't be more than twenty, and as he watches she offers a patron a muffin and a blinding smile.

The scent of coffee is intoxicating. He steps inside, letting the warm air of the cafe sweep around him, chase the chill from his bones and the lingering scent of snowclouds from the wool of his greatcoat.

"Welcome!" The girl beams at him. "I saw you looking from the window!"

"Ah," Javert says, realizing his contemplation may have intimidated, though the girl doesn't look at all disturbed. "I apologize for that." He makes his way stiffly up to the counter, removing his hat and coat. She looks expectantly at him.

"Can I get you something?" She asks, looking for all the world like an overly-helpful shopkeeper. "Inspector?"

He glances up.

"You-" He starts, but she laughs, teeth glinting in the warm light.

"Apologies," she says, smiling, "but your uniform! Do you work at the station across the street?"

Javert's mind goes self-consciously to the patch on the arm of his uniform, exposed from the removal of the covering of his greatcoat. He's unused to any amount of attention being paid to his dress by the general public besides 'oh, fuck, it's a cop!'.

"Ah." He replies, after shaking himself from the slight surprise. "Of course. Yes, my name is Inspector Javert," and, he glances over the menu, "can I get black coffee..." His stomach growls. "And a pain au chocolate."

He's not the type to buy pastry. The order surprises him, but the girl- her nametag reads 'Cosette'- marks down his order and beams up at him.

"Sure!" She chirps before turning and taking two steps, pushing the heavy beige door that, presumably, leads to the kitchen, and poking her head through. "Papa, are those pastry done yet?"

A harried voice comes, muted, through the door, and the girl's father must answer in the affirmative, because Cosette returns in a moment.

"Pastry'll be out in a minute, Inspector." She makes his coffee with swift, decisive movements- Javert regards the sudden deftness of her actions with slight surprise, then thinks to the intelligent sparkle in her bright eyes behind the gleaming smile, and realizes he shouldn't be taken aback. She's a capable girl. "Here's your coffee, there's sugar and cream over there if you should wish it-" She gestures towards a small table to the side of the counter.

"Thank you," Javert says, taking his prize in his hands and trading it for a few neatly creased bills. It's warm, and a heavenly smell wafts from the lid.

"Cosette-" A voice- a man's voice- comes from behind the door, still muted but much less so, "here are the pastry, is everything alright in the front-"

Javert blinks.

His first thought is that the man who emerges from the doorway- silver-white hair, probably a handful of years older than Javert himself, wrapped in a green shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a beige apron - is very attractive. His second is that this is the Cosette girl's father. His third is that the golden, buttery pastry lined on the tray, like delicious soldiers in a row, in his hand smell fantastic.

His fourth is that he thinks he recognizes this man from somewhere.

But from where?

The man stops in his tracks when he sees Javert.

"The front is going fine, Papa," Cosette says, not catching onto her father's sudden reaction, or the turmoiled thoughts of the man across the counter who has prompted it, "and the Inspector has bought a pastry, so could you please hand them over?"

The man- Jean, his nametag reads- jerks as though he's been shocked, shaking himself and hastily nodding. Javert frowns. He could swear he knows the man from somewhere.

"Of course," Jean smiles, though it seems a little wan, "Inspector, thank you for your patronage."

He wraps one pastry in a piece of brown paper and hands it off, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Javert purses his lips and takes it- the man has done nothing to him, besides look vaguely attractive and vaguely familiar, but already he has that rising feeling in his chest, like he's a dog on a scent.

"Thank you," he says, instead of voicing any of his thoughts, and he retreats to a back table, resolving to drink his coffee and eat his pastry slowly enough to regain his composture sufficiently as to return to the precinct and not behead the first beat officer to ask him an inane question, but not so long as to neglect his post. He doesn't turn, but he feels the man's eyes tracking the shift of his shoulder blades under his uniform.

~~~~~~

Javert taps his pen against his desk. The ever-bustling sounds of the precinct leak through the cracks between his door and doorframe, and he stares unseeingly at a form for arraignment of a prisoner, or something. Darkness begins to fall outside, but the lights of the precinct's main room bleeds through, and he has neglected to turn on a light- the room is suspended in half-darkness, Javert's face cast into barely-illuminated shadow. If he were making any attempt to focus, he would find he could barely read the words on the page before him.

Jean.

Madeline's.

The feeling in his stomach says he's seen those eyes before.

He growls inaudibly and shakes himself, because he's an officer of the law, goddamnit, he shouldn't be so easily distracted by a man he only thinks he's seen before, no matter how the man's face abraises at the back of his mind.

(The taste of the coffee and that flaky, delicate, lightly sweet, all-too-indulgent pastry lingers like an afterthought on his tongue.)

~~~~~~

Three mornings later, Javert is early.

He pushes open the door to Madeline's. There's only a handful of patrons sitting at the tables lined along the wall, and Javert makes his way to the front counter without obstruction. The two at the counter today are an almost-ginger, pale-faced boy and a brown-haired girl-

He blinks.

"Inspector Javert?" The girl stiffens, then consciously relaxes, as if suppressing an instinctual reflex.

"Thénardier?" He says.

The boy glances between them. The Thénardier girl's nametag reads 'Éponine'- and yes, Javert remembers her name being something like that- and his 'Marius'.

"It's not every day you run into the man who arrested your parents," she replies, answering Marius's unasked question. Javert tenses.

"They were criminals of the worst disposition-" he begins, realizing as the words leave his mouth that they're both very defensive and entirely inappropriate, and dear God, he'd only wanted a cup of coffee, not a guilt-trip.

Éponine folds her arms.

"I know that," she says, "Monsieur l'Inspector, I am a legal adult making an honest living-"

"What can we get you?" Marius hastens to intervene before their shop is taken up with painful debate. Javert purses his lips. He's not one to talk of children being unable to raise themselves further than unsavoury parentage, so he keeps his mouth shut and asks for a black coffee.

He takes his drink at the table nearest the counter, feeling like a great big black greatcoat of a blotch in the homely, warmly-lit cafe, quietly taking in the knowledge of the Thénardier girl- a nasty case, involving one of the tightest crime rings in Paris, and one that had helped make his career- working at the odd little cafe across from his station. He's not above admitting he half-eavesdrops on Éponine and the Marius boy's conversation for a bit, but it seems to be mostly innocuous idle chatter, so he tunes it out after a while.

Until a new voice joins the fray.

He looks up, a surprising ten minutes later- he's not one to lose track of time, but it has seemed like much less than that- to see Jean at the front, conversing with the two young baristas. Javert catches some mention of mille-feuille, fresh almonds, and the name 'M. Valjean'. At one point, Éponine catches sight of him watching out of the side of his gaze and points him out, probably in not-too-kind words, but Jean smiles at him and inclines his head, and Javert feels an absurd flush rise to his face.

This is ridiculous. Javert tips his hat in return, finishes the rest of his coffee, and sweeps out of the shop in a non-melodramatic manner.

~~~~~~

It isn't until later that he realizes he now knows the mysterious Jean's full name. Jean Valjean. It sounds familiar. The thought itches in the back of his head, but he can't pursue it because M. Gisquet and Chabouillet are both riding him- the former blatantly, the latter more subtly- about the proceedings of the arraignment of some gang of street thugs that's been causing some trouble at the markets on the Rue de Rosiers.

"Damned," he mutters, "blasted, wretched, uncooperative people-"

The new officer looks sympathetically over Javert's desk, where he's assisting with poring through witness reports. They're not very helpful. No one but the street vendors care about a missing crate of apples or an overturned cart.

His stomach grumbles. It's far past the lunch hour, but he's Inspector- he's accustomed to long, early work-days with little food and even less reward for his efforts. Tonight he'll return to his tiny, sparse apartment, kick the heating unit when it decides to die on him during the coldest part of the night, and ignore the sound of constant dripping that's hopefully coming from outside his window as he tries to sleep.

He wonders if Madeleine's has sandwiches.

~~~~~~

Valjean is the one at the front counter one day.

Madeleine's is quickly becoming Javert's one vice- he's always been weak for good coffee, and working on one of the larger streets with cafes lining the cobblestone doesn't help his temptation. On the other hand, he could not justify the extra expense to himself or his bank statements, not when he mends his own clothes to avoid the threadbare elbows of his shirtsleeves offending the public, but Madeleine's coffee is so pleasantly inexpensive for a shop in the midst of the bustling urban center of Paris he wonders how they've been affording the rent. He's seen Cosette, Éponine, Marius, and a handful of others- a blonde boy with intense eyes, a rumpled brown-haired boy, one with remarkably curly hair and sideburns and one with a permanently dopey smile on his face. Half of them recognize him by sight. He fears he's becoming too comfortable, but the easy atmosphere of the cafe is addicting.

"Ah," Valjean says, his glowing smile warmer than any incandescent light in the shop, "Inspector Javert! Can I get you something?"

Javert bites back the sarcastic reply- why else would he be here if not for a caffiene fix- in favor of inclining his head, because there's a saying about biting the hand that feeds you, or something. He removes his hat instead and brushes a scattering of snowflakes off his shoulders before asking for his regular- a black coffee. Even though it's warm in the shop, he shivers slightly when Valjean quotes his price to him in his very nice voice.

In the next moment, he shakes himself out of it and hands over the money, taking his usual table, just near enough to the counter that he can hear what the staff are saying, at the right angle to sip his coffee and observe the street out the window and watch the door to his station.

After a few minutes, Valjean comes to his table and sets down a cup of steaming coffee and a plate with a delicate petit-four in front of him. He stares, perplexed, at the pastry before looking up at the man with a question in his eyes.

"I don't have many regulars to test new pastry on," Valjean says with another of those damnable smiles, though it's belayed a bit by his wide shoulders and broad chest hovering over Javert. "Allow me?"

Javert almost- almost!- stammers, and it's a close call. He bites his tongue instead, trying to reply, because Valjean is suddenly very close and watching him quite intently, and he really has no choice but to pick up the tiny, crumbly pastry and take it into his mouth, feel it melt on his tongue like a puff of dusted sugar, and take a drink of coffee.

"It's a bit sweet," he says automatically, licking his teeth, because he can't lie, "but very sweet things have never been my forte."

He glances up, and Valjean is looking at him with an oddly considering look on his face- only because of the pastry, Javert tells himself, or maybe because he also recognizes Javert from somewhere like he does Valjean.

"It's good, though," he hastens to add. Valjean chuckles.

"Thank you for your input, Inspector," he says, turning away, but almost on instinct Javert's hand shoots out to grab Valjean by the wrist. The other man freezes, and Javert drops his arm as though he's been burned.

"I-I apologize," he mutters, "that was- unspeakably rude-"

Valjean turns back.

"Was there something else?" He asks, lips still turned upwards but his eyes shuttered now, and Javert looks helplessly up at him.

"Have we met?" He blurts. "Before?"

And-there- that's what Javert has been looking for, that flicker of recognition that's been concealed behind the facade of good customer service.

"I don't think so," Valjean says, mouth quirking, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and Javert would be tempted to believe him but his experience as a law enforcement professional and his gut tell him otherwise. "I would remember a face like yours, Inspector."

And he ambles back to the counter. Javert frowns after him.

He waves to Valjean when he leaves the coffeehouse, and Valjean waves back, but even as he's leaving the precinct that night he can't figure out the intention behind the man's last statement.

~~~~~~

"So this is the cafe that's contributed so to the fearsome Javert's great mood!" Henry exclaims in a clear display of insubordination and unprofessionalism, beaming like a schoolboy, following him into the coffeehouse, much to his consternation. "A homely affair- I'm surprised, Inspector."

"What was that?" Javert raises an eyebrow, and Henry backtracks, a flush rising to his cheeks.

"I didn't mean-" He starts, but Javert is tired of stringing him along already, so he rolls his eyes and strides up to the counter. As he'd remembered, Madeleine's does have a small assortment of sandwiches for lunch, so he inspects the glass display case, a hand going unconsciously to the scruff on his chin.

"Inspector!" Cosette, who's at the counter today, beams. "Good to see you for lunch!"

Javert's stomach grumbles.

"I feared I may have a riot on my hands if I didn't reveal to Henry the reason for my newfound good humor in the mornings," he sighs, and gestures to where the officer behind him is cocking his head at some decorative plant. He almost groans in frustration. "Henry."

"Yes, sir," Henry comes to the front, glances between Javert and Cosette, and Javert wants to cuff him over the head. He instead reminds himself that violence against junior officers is a punishable offence. They end up ordering sandwiches, and Javert takes his usual table before Henry can open his mouth and make a suggestion as to where they should sit. Cosette plates their sandwiches and brings them to the table. She smiles at them when she retreats.

All in all, Javert returns to the station, Henry in tow, in a remarkably better mood.

~~~~~~

It takes an accident for Javert to remember where he's seen Jean Valjean before.

There's a commotion one day, around lunchtime, when Javert has decided to indulge himself after a week of barely eating, barely sleeping, tirelessly hounding his one lead on the ghostly dregs of the Patron-Minette- they've finally got their last member in chains, and he checks his wallet to ensure he has enough for lunch and maybe a cup of coffee from Madeleine's.

A cart's been upturned in front of the cafe. Javert's stride speeds up at the sound of the spectacle.

"What's happening here?" He begins to ask, before three things happen in quick succession- the crowd parts for his navy uniform and starched collar so he has an unobstructed view of the source of the disturbance, an older man cries out loudly in pain from under the cart, and the broad figure of Jean Valjean ducks under the cart and hefts it upwards in one monstrous, straining movement. A couple of bystanders drag the old man out from under the cart, and Valjean lets it fall with a heavy grunt.

Jean Valjean.

Javert remembers.

When the man- Fauchelevent, or something- has thanked Valjean profusely for rescuing him, and an ambulance has been called to take him to the hospital for treatment of his undoubtedly broken arm, the crowd milling around begins to disperse. Javert sees Cosette and the blonde boy- Enjolras- setting what remains of Fauchelevent's cart to rights, picking up its spilled contents and moving it out of the way of the cobblestone walk.

Javert strides forward.

"Valjean," he says, grabbing the man's sleeve, and Valjean starts, looks around at him. "You-"

"Ah," Valjean says, with a sheepish smile, and Javert suddenly thinks that he must know that Javert knows, and he must also know that Javert knows that he knows, and if they don't get this situation cleared up soon Javert may have a stroke from the little game of cat-and-mouse that they've both apparently been playing. "Javert."

"It's been a while," he replies, feeling emotions flicker across his face in rapid succession- exasperation, frustration, confusion, surprise- "Jean-le-Cric."

Valjean exhales.

"It's been a while since anyone called me by that name, too," he sighs, rubbing his bruised shoulder. "Can we talk inside?"

Javert follows not two steps behind. Valjean leads the way into the shop, instructing Cosette and Enjolras to finish cleaning up quickly and return to the counter. He makes two coffees for himself and Javert, while Javert sits at his usual table, fiddling with the fingertips of his gloves.

"Why did you lie?" Javert asks immediately, as Valjean sets the coffee down in front of him. "When I asked if we had met before?"

Valjean shrugs.

"Cosette knows nothing of my past, man," he says, and the kindly warmth of his face hasn't disappeared, but seems muted. He glances up at Javert. "I heard the Toulon bakery case did quite a bit for your career, though."

Javert snorts.

"There is no reason for you to hide," he mutters, picking up the coffee cup and swirling it absently, "you were absolved of all guilt in the proceedings- the jury ruled you innocent, and you spent only days in prison."

Valjean glances away, then back.

"Nonetheless." He says, but the smile returns marginally to his face as he takes a sip of coffee and looks Javert in the eyes. "It was a surprise to see you walk in my doors, though."

Javert doesn't reply, and busies himself with his own drink. He feels the strangest urge to reach over and touch Valjean's shirtsleeve again, or encircle his wrist in his fingers. He ignores it.

"Will you return?" Valjean asks, still watching him. "We are glad for your patronage."

Javert scowls.

"I wish you had not lied to me," he says, standing in a flurry of coarse black wool, retrieving his cane from where it is propped against the wood of the table. "Thank you for the drink."

He leaves enough money on the table to cover the cost and sweeps out of the door, not looking back, not entirely sure why he's doing what he is- it doesn't matter, he thinks, because Jean Valjean jumbles his thoughts and makes his chest tighten and soar, and it will do good to take some space to sort out his feelings.

Valjean watches him leave with an unreadable look on his face.

~~~~~~

Javert thinks he's going through withdrawal.

It's been two weeks since he's visited Madeleine's, and the entire station is feeling his change in mood. The officers steer clear of him when he stalks through the corridors, a black look on his face, the always-present coffee cups on his desk remaining full and cooling. He tells himself he can find another cafe, but the rest of the ones on the street are either overpriced or not to his taste.

The lights of Madeleine's glow from across the street of the station, taunting him when he arrives in the morning and leaves in the evening and steps out for lunch in between, and he thinks he may go mad soon enough.

He breaks when he snaps at Henry for something as foolish as a misspelling in a witness report. Even Javert can recognize his own behavior is unprofessional at best and unacceptable at worst, and it rankles at him that Jean Valjean should cause such a chip in his armor, and the fact that it is unintentional is even worse. He steels himself to make that trek across the street.

The bell above the door jingles when he pushes it open.

"Inspector!" Cosette smiles at him as though nothing has happened. "We haven't seen you recently! Papa was ever so worried, though he tells me he hasn't been."

Javert purses his lips. The visions of Jean-le-Cric, the man who could lift a millstone on his back, and Jean Valjean, the handsome man with a charming smile who seemed to want to keep Javert around, war in his mind.

"Oh, wait, I'll go get him," Cosette continues before he can even get one word out, "Papa," she calls behind her, and towards the door to the bakery, "the Inspector's returned, isn't that good news?" Valjean comes through the bakery door.

"Javert," he says.

Javert scowls at him.

"Black coffee, please," he mutters, not taking his eyes off Valjean. Cosette looks between them and shakes her head, takes down his order, and Valjean is the one to break eye contact first. It sends a tiny thrill of triumph through Javert's body.

"We're glad to see you back," Valjean says, avoiding Javert's eye now, turning to return to the back room.

"Valjean," Javert says, loudly, watching the way his head comes back around to meet Javert's eye, "do you think I would relinquish the only decently priced coffee on the street?"

Valjean stares at him. His shoulders begin to shake, and soon he's laughing, eyes crinkled, and Cosette looks at both of them as though they're quite mad.

a note about the title:

Borrowed from Wikipedia: In In Search of Lost Time (also known as Remembrance of Things Past), author Marcel Proust uses madeleines to contrast involuntary memory with voluntary memory. The latter designates memories retrieved by "intelligence," that is, memories produced by putting conscious effort into remembering events, people, and places. Proust's narrator laments that such memories are inevitably partial, and do not bear the "essence" of the past. The most famous instance of involuntary memory by Proust is known as the "episode of the madeleine," yet there are at least half a dozen other examples in In Search of Lost Time.

"No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. ... Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea." — Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

#valvert #les miserables #jean valjean #javert #les mis #mine #my writing

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