Chapter Text
Javert felt very proud of himself as he climbed the three floors to his new apartment, as the old lady opened the door to let him look around the little room with an adjacent toilet, and even as he placed his case on the low bed and it squeaked loudly as it rocked on one too-short leg. He handed over the first three months' rent and bid the woman farewell, requesting she put his share of dinner aside for he would be returning home late, and then waited until she had closed the door to survey the room. The bed had had all four legs cut short (clearly at some point one leg had broken and rather than fix it it had been chopped down for them to all be even) and this meant it was unusually low to the ground and he grimaced and leaned on it again to ascertain how easily it rocked. He grunted. Then he went in and inspected the toilet, which was clean enough. Beside the door to the toilet was a small wood-burning stove with three lumps of dry wood piled up. On top, there was a ceramic bowl for washing. There was a little dressing table by the window, which he found was also wonky and that irritated him. The mirror was cheaply made and misty but he could shave in it at least and that was satisfactory. The set of drawers for his clothes shrieked as he opened it and he grunted again with annoyance but began to unpack his old leather case and neatly fold the clothes as he lay them inside. When he was done he opened the drawer in the bedside table and found an old bible. He threw it back into the drawer, paused and then took it and shoved it under the short leg of the little dressing table. It was too tall so he opened the bible and lay it face down under the leg, this time there was no rocking, and he smiled as he rose. He placed his hands on his hips to survey the room again and began to unpack his belongings, his writing material, charcoal, and razor on the dressing table. His personal washcloth he lay over the bowl on the wood-burning stove. Jean had sent him off with his nice suit but he had left that in his leather case and he shoved it unceremoniously under the bed beside the chamber pot.
Then there was nothing left to do so he sat down on the squeaking bed and stared at the door. He realised as he sat, that the little window didn’t fully close and the wind whistled through it, filling the room with cold. He dropped his head in his hands. After a long moment, he lifted his head and said aloud,
“You’re free. Your pride can keep you warm.”
He took himself straight to the station and handed the letter Madeleine had written to Chabouillet. Chabouillet raised a brow at it and frowned as he read it but folded it neatly again, laid it on the table, sighed and said,
“I see.”
Javert stood to attention, looking down at him in expectant silence. Chabouillet looked at the folded letter for a long moment and then glanced up and said,
“Well, Inspector Madeleine, you ought to get to work.”
Javert flushed with annoyance at the name but he bowed and left the office to find himself a desk and some instructions.
Life went on as expected for Javert; he threw himself into his work with gusto, spending every day beating the streets, making arrests and, most importantly, a reputation for himself. He was used to the uphill struggle and so set his chin and took each blow and humiliation with dignity. Being a single Omega had made his life complicated yet, somehow, being a married one made his life worse. Where before he had been able to intimidate those who thought it appropriate to scrutinise him now it seemed they believed marriage had taken his teeth and there was nothing to dissuade them. The burden of the expectation that he should be at home producing children weighed heavy on his shoulders. He worked harder than any of his peers, quickly surpassing them in terms of hours and arrests, yet felt day-by-day he received only more criticism. All the world joined Madeleine in condemnation of him leaving Montrieul-sur-Mer and his beloathed husband. It boiled him and hardened his resolve all at once.
After a week, he wrote Valjean a letter, brief and to the point, outlining his new address and his work. This he posted and resolved to forget about, but Valjean would not give him peace and responded with a long and flowery diatribe. Javert opened it, flicked through the four sheets of paper- written front and back- and then folded it back up, returned it to the envelope, and shoved it into the bedside drawer. After the second week, he received another letter, shorter and beginning with a post-script stating,
I fear you did not receive my first letter-
Here Javert stopped reading, slung it into the bedside drawer and slammed himself down on the chair at the dressing table to pen a messy reply:
Letter was received, no need to write further.
By the end of the month, Javert had made his first big arrest: a baker who had murdered his wife and son. This he celebrated with great satisfaction having fulfilled the reason he joined the police force in the first place: to protect society from that violent subsect of individuals who sought only its destruction. Yes, of course, arresting thieves and pickpockets also achieved this goal in a small sense but there was nothing more satisfying than clamping the irons on a murderer. He celebrated by buying himself a couple of chunks of stewing beef and asking the old woman who cooked his stew to add them in for his dinner. He even bought himself a piece of dry wood for the wood-burning stove (which had run out three days ago, leaving him shivering under the thin blanket and his long coat for warmth.)
When he arrived at work the next day he was surprised to find himself called into Chabouillet’s office.
“Monsieur,” Javert said, bowing as he stood before the Prefect’s desk, “you summoned me?”
“You’ve been working very hard since your arrival here Inspector Madeleine,”
“-Javert,” Javert blurted out before he could catch himself. He flushed with horror as he noted the look of irritation on his superior’s face and quickly lowered his gaze, “forgive me, Monsieur, but I prefer to use my birth name.”
“That doesn’t concern me,” Chabouillet responded, removing his reading glasses and folding them on his desk, “only the opinion of the Law matters on the issue of your name, and by the Law you are Madeleine.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You will hinder yourself with that attitude, Inspector- by God- you have been uplifted in every possible way by a world that would choose to hold you down and it seems you would refuse it- or even choose to make your own life harder. You had a wonderful position in M-sur-M and chose to abandon it, no doubt you have noticed the hostility you receive here in Paris, well it is by your own doing. But,” here he paused and sighed, “I did not bring you in to criticise you, I brought you in to praise you and because, most significantly, I wished to ask you to join me for lunch.”
Javert’s eyes shot up to his face,
“Monsieur?”
“It is not favouritism- although of course you owe your career to me- but personal curiosity. I want to know more about your other patron-”
Here Javert looked visibly confused,
“-Monsieur Madeleine.”
Javert swallowed, flushing slightly with irritation. He lowered his eyes again,
“I see, monsieur.”
“You understand of course that you will receive more hostility for accompanying me to lunch?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“But you understand of course that this is an order?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Very well,” Chabouillet said, rising from his chair, “wait outside for me to put away my papers. Do not fear, I will pay.”
They went together, keeping a respectable distance as they walked, to a cafe far outside of Javert’s income and he bowed his head in humility as he was led inside and brought to their table - M. Chabouillet’s customary table.
“Wonderful place this,” M. Chabouillet said amiably as they brought over two coffees with too much milk for Javert’s taste. Javert kept his eyes on the tabletop and sipped his drink when he felt he had gone too long without doing so and risked appearing ungrateful.
“You eat meat?” Chabouillet asked him,
“When it is available,” Javert replied, voice low. Chabouillet’s brows raised,
“Surely your husband sends you an income?”
“I did not marry him to take advantage of his money, monsieur.”
He left off that he did not choose to marry Madeleine at all, and tried not to let any hint of his feelings on it seep into his tone.
Chabouillet huffed,
“And no doubt you have been too proud to accept it.”
Javert raised his brows at that,
“Monsieur?”
“I have not been completely blind to your personality, Javert, it is not only your work ethic I have observed; you are, without doubt, one of the most stubborn men I have ever had the pleasure to witness walk this earth.”
Javert puffed out a breath,
“You have not met my husband.”
Chabouillet chuckled at this and it struck Javert as wrong that a man of his status should laugh in front of a man of Javert’s.
“I apologise for my flippancy,” Javert rumbled.
“Don't, I would appreciate your insight into M.Madeleine’s personality. Of course, I have heard so much about him I cannot help but be curious and when I heard he had taken you and married you…well…” here he paused to call the waiter and order for them both.
Javert waited passively for him to speak again.
“I must say it shocked me,” Chabouillet continued, “I had heard he was an unusual man with a passion for intervening with the lower classes but it surprised me- your part in it I mean.”
“Monsieur?”
“You did not strike me as a man concerned with marrying up.”
“In truth, monsieur, he pursued me.”
“That must have been hard for you,” Chabouillet frowned, “a man like you, so aware of the importance of social order, being imposed upon by a man so far above you. No doubt you have understood better than any commentator the impropriety of Madeleine’s affections, you being so unsuitable a choice.”
Javert's fingers picked at the knee of his trousers beneath the table,
“Yes, monsieur.”
Chabouillet sighed,
“And yet it seems he is a man adept at getting his way. I assume you tried to refuse him?”
“I have, monsieur.”
“And yet he did not take your advice.”
“Forgive me, monsieur, but Madeleine is no fool. He might be stubborn and wilful but he is no idiot. He understands the consequences of his own decisions.”
Javert glanced up hotly and met his superior’s expression, expecting anger, and finding surprise and delight,
“I am pleased to hear you defend him!” Chabouillet smiled, “I had thought you deeply unhappy, having fled to Paris.”
Javert's mouth fell open,
“I- no- it is merely my career-”
“It is unheard of for a happy couple to separate; you cannot blame me for my assumption. I suspected he was not the man he seemed to be.”
Javert pinched the fabric of his knee, his voice caught in his throat. He managed to force out,
“He is every bit the generous and tender-hearted man you have heard. Soft-spoken and deeply concerned with the well-being of the poor.”
“And you left him.”
“We are still married.”
“From such a distance?”
“We'll visit,” Javert lied.
Chabouillet quirked a brow at him, eyes searching his face. He raised a calming hand,
“Don't confuse my curiosity with interest- I am a happily married man.”
Javert's eyebrows shot up under his fringe,
“I didn't think-”
“I don't want any confusion. I love my wife dearly, and besides,” here Chabouillet chuckled, “I hear your M. Madeleine is an impressively large fellow! I wouldn't want him to feel I had stepped on his toes!”
Javert flushed,
“Monsieur I would never assume impropriety on your part.”
“I am aware,” Chabouillet replied, waving his hand.
They paused for the waiter to put down their plates. Javert swallowed as he looked down at the meal, they had both been served veal with a thick gravy and mixed vegetables. He waited for Chabouillet to begin eating and then started himself, ashamed that he was not paying for it himself.
“I’d like to meet your M. Madeleine,” Chabouillet said, making Javert almost choke, “he strikes me as a very unique man with tremendous potential. I have heard that he was born poor? Do you know of his upbringing?”
“He is a private man,” Javert hesitated. Chabouillet gave him a look that suggested he should be aware of their social relationship and Javert added, “he was a laborer in his early life.”
Chabouillet nodded, “a hardworking man.”
“Yes.”
“Like yourself.”
“It attracted me to him, I confess.”
The food was delicious.
“Are you ashamed to be living in Paris alone?”
Javert tried to focus on his eating, chewing thoroughly,
“It was approved by my husband.”
“Yes.”
“His opinion is the only one I am concerned with.”
Chabouillet paused, fork hovering, his eyes reading Javert’s face,
“I am glad you’re happy, Javert. In truth, I have been worried about you over the years. You are forty are you not?”
“Yes.”
“It’s concerned me in the past that you remained alone. It’s improper for an Omega to remain single beyond the age of thirty, it’s de-stabilising for society. I had my fears that there was a secret rebel in you-”
“Never!”
“-that showed itself through its flippancy towards marriage. I’m relieved to find that you were merely holding back for the best match. In fact, I think you were right. It would have been easy for you to have matched poorly, what with your breeding. You were wise to hold on so long. You chose well.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” Javert said, eyes on his plate, cheeks red with both pride and shame.
“You seem to hold Madeleine in high regard and I am satisfied by that.”
“I’m glad, and I am grateful for your concern.”
“Of course, you are my protege it would have reflected poorly on me if you had made a bad match.”
Javert returned to work with a full stomach, it was the first time he had had a full stomach since leaving M-sur-M and he thought bitterly to himself ‘Don’t get used to it!’ as he returned to walking the beat.
By the evening, he was exhausted. His long lunch with his superior had earned him the ire of his peers who felt he was receiving special treatment- in truth he was, but not because he was an Omega or because he had married up but because of the privilege and responsibility of his position as Chabouillet’s protege. If he had explained this to his peers they, of course, would not have cared so he didn’t try. Instead, he tolerated the loathing with the same resilience he had tolerated all the loathing he had experienced as consequence of his birth. He returned home at around eleven and disregarded the cold stew plated up for him, refusing the dinner on a matter of ethos: he had eaten enough at lunch to not warrant wasting the food just for the sake of having dinner. He returned the stew to the pot before he trudged upstairs, opened the door of his apartment and was immediately blasted with the freezing air that was whistling in through the crack in the window frame. He shook down to his bones and locked the door behind him before hurrying to burn the one piece of wood he had on the fire for warmth. As he climbed into bed, beneath the thin blanket and his heavy old coat, still in his socks and shirt and trousers, he thought idly how nice it would be to have another big warm body beside him. This immediately angered him and he cursed aloud at himself for being so childish and weak. Still, it was very cold and after an hour of lying awake, shivering, he thought the same thing again and genuinely lamented the absence of Jean Valjean in his bed. This was the first time he pressed his face into the pillow and let himself feel something over than hot pride and indignity. The image of Valjean’s face floated before his eyes, soft and tender and pleading.
“He should have thought of that before he imprisoned me,” he snarled into the dark but his bottom lip trembled.
Still, the phantom remained: the broad chest, the strong arms, the scratch of his curly chest hair. Javert shook his head as if he were a dog trying to rid itself of a flea. He rolled over to face the wall, the bed creaking and tipping as he did so. He snarled again. There was some plaster missing from the wall leaving the bare panels exposed and Javert frowned at it. He couldn’t afford a better apartment on his police pay, especially considering he received lower pay as a married Omega. He had let himself become accustomed to comfort, that was the problem. Once he would not have noticed the cold or rough housing but now he had had a taste of soft sheets and a soft bed he had been spoiled. And how little it had taken to spoil him! Shameful. You were a better man once, he thought bitterly, before you made your bed with a recidivist. It was the mindset of the misérables , he thought, to think you are entitled to a happy life! No, it was better to be poor and cold and hungry and have your dignity, than to be the pup and plaything of a rich man. He pouted,
“You are Javert,” he reminded himself aloud, saying the name as if it were a ward against the temptations of the world. When the world did not answer he took that as the final statement on the issue, tucked himself against the wall and fell into a deep sleep.