Chapter Text
“Excuse me, sir?”
Valjean looks up to see a man standing in the doorway of the shop. He smiles awkwardly. “Yes, how may I help you?”
“I’m arranging a funeral for my father,” the man says, walking up to the counter. “I was hoping your shop would be able to supply flowers for the service.”
“Certainly,” Valjean replies. He glances around. “Unfortunately, Zephine seems to be out right now, and she usually handles things like that. Funerals and weddings and such. Would you mind waiting?”
“It’s not as though I have anywhere to be today,” the man replies, shrugging.
Valjean nods. “What name would you like the order to be under?”
“Javert.”
“Thank you.”
Then the two of them stand awkwardly in the shop. Valjean tilts his head, frowning. Javert seems awfully familiar, but he can’t quite place the man’s face.
Javert seems to notice him staring. “What?”
“Nothing, it’s just…” Valjean clears his throat. “Have I met you before?”
Javert scoffs. “I’ve never been in here before. I doubt it.” Then he frowns. “But come to think of it, I do frequent the shop next door. Maybe…”
The two men look at each other for a long moment, then Valjean's breaks out of his stupor. He blinks and leans on the counter.
“You mentioned that the funeral is for your father. I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, attempting conversation.
“It’s okay.” Javert stuffs his hands into his pockets. “He was a dick anyway. I’m only doing funeral arrangements for him because nobody else wants to.”
“Oh. Okay.” Valjean blinks. He didn’t expect such a blunt response.
They start to settle into silence again, but the door opens and Zephine comes in. Valjean catches her eye, opens his mouth to speak, but she holds up a finger.
“Of course, ma’am. We’ll have the delivery there by 2:00. I have to hang up now.” She clicks the phone off and smiles. “How can I help?”
Valjean gestures to Javert. “This gentleman is looking to make arrangements for a funeral. The name on the order should be Javert, and I’m sure the two of you will work out the details. You’ll help him with it, right?”
“Of course. Right this way, sir.” Zephine gestures, starting to walk away, and Javert follows. Valjean watches them.
“Oh, and Mr. Valjean,” Zephine calls over her shoulder, “the Collier-Fabre wedding has asked that they get their delivery at 2:00 instead of 3:00.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Valjean mumbles under his breath. “I’ll make sure it gets there.” He looks up, and for a moment, he catches Javert’s eye. The man has a strange expression on his face.
Valjean turns away. Best to think nothing of it.
Javert drums his fingers on the steering wheel, staring at the cars in front of his own, but his mind isn’t on the traffic.
Valjean. He knows that name. from a police report, maybe. God knows how many he’s filed. Or perhaps from earlier, back when he worked as prison guard.
He glances at the traffic. It won’t be moving any time soon. He slips his phone from his pocket and presses the home button. “Siri, look up La Petit Fleurs flower shop.”
“Okay, I found this on the web for petty flower shops.”
“Goddammit,” Javert hisses, hitting the home button. He glances up at the closest traffic light. Still red. He pulls up a search engine, then hastily types la petit fleurs flower shop into the search bar. The first result is a website for the flower shop. Javert clicks it, though not before quickly looking at the light again, and looks down at the phone. There’s a search bar at the very top of the page.
A car behind him honks, startling him, and he looks up to see that the light has changed. And that the cars in front of him have moved. Cursing, he presses his foot on the gas pedal again.
The name continues to tug at his mind. Valjean. He knows it. And the man did say that he looked familiar. Javert conjures up an image of his face again—white hair, hazel eyes.
Lord, he was handsome.
“Shut up, Javert,” he grumbles to himself. He’s going to buy the flowers for his father’s funeral, pay the shop, and never enter it again. It’s entirely his father’s fault that he’s even doing this. Why couldn’t the sorry man have died just a few years earlier?
The shine of Javert’s phone catches his eye. Might as well track down Valjean and see if he knows him. And if Javert doesn’t, he’ll leave the matter alone. He pulls into the first parking lot he sees, grabbing his phone. He types the name Valjean into the search bar, then presses enter. A short list of employees comes up.
Jean Valjean, manager
“Jean Valjean,” Javert murmurs to himself. The name is even more familiar now. “Where do I know you from?”
He’s getting needlessly worked up about this and he knows it. But he doesn’t have anything else to do, and he’s never been able to resist a case he can solve. Or one he can’t, for that matter.
He dials a familiar phone number. It rings twice before anyone picks up.
“Dumont?” Javert asks. “Hey. Yeah, it’s Javert. What’d you do to get stuck with answering the phone?”
“What do you want?” Dumont’s voice is exasperated and a bit muffled.
“I need you to check if we have anything on a man named Jean Valjean. I’d do it myself, but.”
“God, Javert. Chabouillet and Gisquet forced you onto leave for a reason.”
“Just this one time,” Javert says. He doesn’t plead; he’s never pleaded for anything in his life. Though this comes the closest. “I’ll do your paperwork for the week after I get back.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Dumont—“ Javert starts, and then he hears the click of the other line hanging up. He sighs and turns his phone off.
He’ll just have to find out who Jean Valjean is himself, then.
• • •
“Fantine,” Valjean asks, stirring sugar into his coffee cup, ‘is there a man who comes around here regularly?”
It’s late now, around 10:00, and both Valjean’s flower shop and Fantine’s cafe are closed. Fantine is cleaning up while Valjean drinks coffee left over from the days work.
Fantine glances up from wiping down the counter. “You’re gonna have to be a lot more specific.”
“Sorry. His name’s Javert. Really tall, longish hair…” Valjean gestures as if comparing his and Javert’s height. “Really tall.”
“Oh yeah. He comes in here pretty often. Why?”
Valjean peers down at his coffee cup. “No reason.”
Fantine hops over the counter, snickering. “Come on, Jean. There’s gotta be a reason.”
“Well, there isn’t one.”
“Are you into him?”
Valjean turns red. “What? No. Look, he came into today to buy stuff for a funeral, and I thought he looked familiar. He said he comes here a lot. So I thought maybe that’s how we know each other.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Fantine looks at him. “You sure you’re not into him?”
“Fantine.”
“You’ve got that sort of smile thing that you do sometimes, when you like something but don’t realize it. Kind of a far away look.”
“Fantine.”
She raises her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”
“Thank you,” Valjean mumbles. “It’s just that I know him from somewhere, and I can’t figure out where. I don’t think it was your shop, either.”
Fantine shrugs. “Do you want to know more about him?”
“Why not?” Valjean says, somewhat wearily.
She hops up onto the counter she’s just cleaned. “He always orders black coffee and never buys any food. He smells like smoke sometimes. Oh, and he’s a cop.”
Valjean freezes. “What?”
“I said he’s a cop.” Fantine glances at him. “Oh. Jean, It’s okay. You served your time a long time ago; you don’t have to worry about it. Was I even born?”
“Mm. How old are you?”
“28.”
“God, you’re young,” Valjean mutters under his breath. “Okay, 55 minus 28… actually, yes. You were born that same year.”
Fantine snickers again. “You’re so old.”
“I am not. I’m 55.”
“Old,” Fantine says teasingly. “C’mon. Your hair is completely white.”
“From stress,” Valjean defends. “Is Steve Martin old?”
“Yes! He’s 73!”
Valjean sighs. “I’m 55. That is not old, that’s middle aged. And we were talking about Javert.”
“Yeah. The cop that you’re suddenly very interested in, Jean.” Fantine raises her eyebrows, grinning.
Valjean sighs and rests his head in his hands.
A few days later, Valjean is in his shop again, arranging a display of tulips. The bell on the door rings as it, presumably, swings open.
“Just a moment,” he calls.
When he turns around and jumps off the step stool, he sees Javert.
For a moment, Valjean freezes, recalling the conversation with Fantine. Then he rearranges his face into a smile. “Hello, Javert. How may I help you today?”
Javert opens his mouth, pauses, then speaks. “My mother has suddenly decided to involve herself in the funeral planning. She’s picked out flowers different from the ones originally decided on. Is it possible to change the order?”
Valjean furrows his brow. “Considering it was made only a few days ago… when you need the flowers?”
“April 26th.”
“A week. Okay.” He rests his weaker leg on the step stool. “I believe that we can make that arrangement, but it’ll need to be done as soon as possible, and you’ll have to pay a fee. Zephine’s taken the day off, so you’ll have to work with me.”
Javert nods. “Neither of those is a problem.”
“I just have to put the step stool away—“ Valjean gestures “—and then I can help you. Zephine showed you to the room previously, right?”
“Yes.”
“You can go in if you like. I have to track down whatever book she put your orders in.” He smiles apologetically. “It might take a while.”
“That’s all right. I’m on leave right now, so I haven’t got anywhere to be.” Javert leaves for the room. And, for some reason, Valjean finds his eyes tracking him.
It takes them less then an hour to work out the details.
By the end, Javert has crushed his fingernails into his palm with such force he worries the gouges might begin to bleed. He hates lying; always has, always will. His mother wants nothing to do with the funeral. Or with his father, for that matter.
But this was the only believable reason he could think of to meet Valjean again.
And determine where you know him from, he reminds himself.
The room they’re in is sparsely decorated, with a couch and an armchair, a table in front of them. Valjean smiles at him from across the couch. He taps a pen on the open page before him, already filled with spidery handwriting.
“So, mainly white lilies, as well as some white orchids and blue hydrangea,” he says. Javert nods. “That should work well together. And you’re sure you can afford the change?”
“Yes,” Javert says, lying again.
Valjean closes the book. “All right. And hopefully your mother won’t change her mind about the flowers,” he says, and smiles. “I think we’re finished, actually.”
Suddenly, Javert realizes that he hasn’t found anything else out about this man besides the fact he has nice handwriting. His heart quickens. He can’t have come here only to spend an extra 70 dollars, which he doesn’t have, and lie about his father’s funeral. But Valjean is walking back out into the main area of the flower shop, and Javert, somehow, is following him.
“Wait!”
Valjean turns around, already at the counter. “Yes?”
“I…” Javert struggles to think of something. “This is… a very nice shop, and somehow I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it. How long have you been here?”
Valjean smiles. “Quite a while. Fourteen years, actually.” He turns, places the book on a shelf, and spins back to face Javert in one elegant movement. “It’s odd you’ve never noticed it.”
“I’ve never really focused on anything other than work, honestly.”
“You’re a police officer, right?”
Javert frowns, eyes narrowing. “How do you know that?”
“I…” Valjean turns red. “I know the woman who runs the shop next door, and you said—you said that you go there a lot. I still couldn’t figure out where I knew you from, so I asked her.”
“Hmm.” Javert folds his arms over his chest, suddenly suspicious for reasons unknown. “Well, you’re right. I’m an inspector.”
“An… inspector!” Valjean moves his arms as though he doesn’t know what to do with them. He finally hooks them behind his back. “That’s. A very high rank.”
“Not really. And you’re nervous about something.” Javert tilts his head, intrigued. “What?”
“Nothing.” But the man’s voice is higher than it was before.
Javert dismisses it. He takes a step closer to the counter. “Anyway. Did you have a shop elsewhere?”
“What?” Valjean squeaks, and Javert rolls his eyes.
“Before this. Did you have a shop before you opened this one? It seems—“ he casts a look over the shop “—very well run.”
Valjean lets his arms drop. His nervousness seems to have passed. “No, actually,” he says, leaning against the counter. “I worked in a church rectory for a number of years, and before that…” he laughs, but it’s brittle. “I don’t really have time to unpack that.”
Valjean gestures to him. “What about you?”
“Me?” Javert pauses. “Oh, I’ve been an inspector for a while. I’ve had every rank beneath it, of course. I’ve even been a prison guard. Not for long, though—just four years.”
“Oh.”
Valjean leans across the counter, and Javert leans forward subconsciously as well. And then, the door on the bell rings. A man’s voice calls across the shop. “Mr. Valjean!”
“I have to go,” Javert says quickly. Valjean furrows his brow, but Javert is already turning round. He hurries past a man with grey hair and out the front door.
And for some reason, he feels oddly disappointed.
Valjean watches Javert tear down the street, confused. He stands straight again.
“Who was that?” Fauchelevent asks. His eyes follow the police inspector as well.
“No one, Fauchelevent,” Valjean sighs. “That was no one.”
• • •
“Chabouillet—“
“No, Javert.”
“Sir, you don’t understand,” Javert protests. He’s using the phone while driving, again, but he’s too annoyed to care. Jean Valjean was supposed to be a simple mystery, something he’d solve while on leave.
“I understand perfectly, Javert.” Chabouillet’s voice, on the other end, is somewhat exasperated. “You’re on leave, but you’re so accustomed to overworking yourself that you can’t bear not to.”
Javert doesn’t dispute this point. Instead he says, “This isn’t for a case. I just need someone to see if there are any files on a man named Jean Valjean. Or to let me into the precinct so I can check for myself.”
“No. You have eight days left on your leave. You will not step foot in the precinct until they’re over, and you will not call anyone in the office. Do you understand?”
“I don’t,” Javert says, resisting the urge to dig his fingernails into his skin again.
“I know you do.”
Javert huffs. “I understand, sir,” he growls into the phone, and hangs up before Chabouillet can. He flings the phone across the car. It’s a shitty model anyway.
Then he slams a hand down on the side of the dashboard. “It’s a shitty model, and you just spent 70 dollars extra on flowers, dumbass,” Javert hisses to himself.
He’s going to hit something if he doesn’t calm down soon, and pat of him doesn’t want to. His apartment is still a few minutes away. So he pulls over, again. This time it’s into a parking lot that has some office building at the back of it.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Restlessly, angrily.
Chabouillet’s right. Javert has overworked himself so much, so often, that he can’t even take a twelve-day, mandatory leave without jumping on the first semblance of a case he finds. He yanks the cigarette pack and lighter from inside the glove compartment, then flings open the car door and steps outside. Javert lights it with shaking hands. He nearly became addicted as a young man. Now he only smokes when he’s stressed.
Which means he smokes at least once a week.
He glances up at the sky. The sky is grey, crowded with clouds. There won’t be any stars out tonight. Javert huffs, ripping his gaze away.
He was only supposed to get flowers for his father’s funeral. He doesn’t even like flowers. And La Petit Fleurs is right next door to the cafe he frequents, and he figured it would be the easiest place to go.
He didn’t account for Jean Valjean. And, Javert reminds himself, he still hasn’t discovered the connection between the florist and him.
He drops the cigarette and crushes it under his heel, then gets into his car again. He might as well go home.
It’s been nearly a week since Javert fled the flower shop, and Valjean has put the incident out of his mind since then. He’s tried to put the inspector out of his mind, too, but he can’t quite seem to.
But now, he strides into Fantine’s cafe. He’s quite tired, despite it only being 3:00 in the afternoon, and he desperately needs coffee. Honestly, he prefers tea, but he’ll admit that coffee’s caffeine does wonders for him.
The shop has a mild crowd, but isn’t full like it is in the mornings or on weekends. There’s only two people in line. Valjean hums to himself while he waits, tapping a finger on his leg.
“Papa!”
He turns around to see Cosette running up to him. A backpack hangs off her shoulders. He sweeps her up. She laughs, hugging him, and then he puts her down gently.
“How was school?” Valjean asks, and Cosette beams.
“Great! Éponine says she wants to shave her head, and that Ms. Waugh has a John Mulaney vibe. I don’t know what that is, though.”
Valjean inhales deeply. “Good God, her parents let her watch John Mulaney.”
“What is that?” Cosette asks, but Valjean shakes his head.
“He’s a comedian, but you’re a little too young to watch him. What else happened?”
“A lot.” Cosette peers past him. “But I want to go sneak some pastries from Dahlia, okay?”
“Okay.” Valjean waves as she dashes away. “Have fun!”
Then the man in front of him moves away, and he steps up to the counter. Fantine is there, smiling. When she sees it’s him, she immediately drops her customer service smile.
“What’ll it be, Jean?” she asks, though not unkindly.
“One coffee, please. One creamer.”
“Thank God for you and your simple orders,” she says, turning away. “I had a woman ask for a latte with, like, thirteen variations on it. Cosette, please get out of the biscotti.”
Valjean smiles to himself. Fantine hands the coffee to him a minute later, and he pays in full. Then he looks around, trying to find a seat.
His eyes snag on a familiar face. And, suddenly, that face looks up to see him.
“Valjean!” Javert says in surprise, at the same time Valjean says “Javert!”
“Can I sit down?” Valjean asks, gesturing to the empty chair at the table.
Javert shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”
Valjean sits on it cross-legged, placing his coffee in front of him. “You’re an inspector. What are you doing here at this hour?”
“I’m on leave.” Javert pushes his own cup with a single finger. “Forced leave, actually. My superiors think I’m overworking myself, so they’ve been looking for a way to make me stop. Apparently my father’s death was the perfect opportunity.”
“Are you overworking yourself?” Valjean asks.
Javert raises an eyebrow. “Apparently.”
Valjean peers at him, trying to determine whether or not he’s making a joke. He quickly gives up. “So, you said you come here a lot.”
“Yeah. Do you?”
Valjean frowns. “Actually, not as often as I’d like. The flower shop keeps me rather busy.”
“I know what that’s like,” Javert says. And he chuckles a little, though he doesn’t smile. Valjean feels something warm in his chest.
He takes a sip from his coffee cup, then leans forward. “What’s the weirdest case you’ve ever worked on?”
“What?”
“I said, what’s the weirdest case you’ve ever worked on?” Valjean repeats.
“Oh.” Javert strokes his chin, almost pensively. “Hm. Do you want to hear about a gory one, or just a weird one?”
“Weird. I have coffee to drink.”
Valjean doesn’t know why he’s doing this. Maybe it’s because he has time to kill until his break is over; maybe it’s because he’s bored. Or maybe it’s because he’s intrigued by this inspector and his unknown familiarity.
Javert drums his fingers on the table. “The weirdest case. I think it was the one where the guy was keeping both a bear and cocaine in his basement.”
“What?”
“He had a bear in his basement. Illegally, of course. One day he bought an assload of cocaine and thought it would be a good idea to store it in the same basement as the bear. Needless to say, the bear got into the cocaine.” Javert takes a long sip. “It wasn’t particularly difficult; I mean, he called us on himself. But it was weird and slightly terrifying.”
Valjean leans back in his chair. “That’s… yeah. Just weird.”
“Also incredibly stupid,” Javert offers.
“And stupid.” Valjean curls his hands around the coffee cup. “How’s your mother?”
“My… oh. She’s doing fine.”
“How’s she taking your father’s death?” Valjean asks, as gently as possible.
“She’s taking it fine, considering he hightailed it when I was three years old.”
Valjean frowns. “Why was she so invested in his funeral, then? I mean, she changed the entire flower order.”
Javert looks confused for a moment, and then realization dawns on his face. “Oh. She’s a bit of, ah, a control freak?”
“Javert,” Valjean observes, “you’re digging your fingernails into your palm. Are you all right?”
The inspector glances down at his hands. “Excuse me for a moment.” He gets up. Then he dashes away, though he leaves the coffee cup sitting on the table. Valjean sighs and leans back in his chair.
He can’t get it out of his mind, no matter how hard he tries. How does he know Javert?
“Maybe he arrested me,” Valjean mumbles to himself, though he knows it’s not true. He remembers exactly what his arresting officer looked like, and it wasn’t Javert. He wasn’t Valjean’s parole officer, either.
He has no idea how he is supposed to figure this out.
He doubts the answer will simply come to him one day. He’s going to have to get to know Javert to figure out here their paths crossed. But how?
Suddenly, Valjean remembers what Fantine said to him days ago. “Are you into him?”
He cringes immediately. He hates the thought of it, of making anyone think that he’s romantically interested in them when he’s not. But Javert’s father’s funeral was yesterday. Unless Valjean visits the cafe every day and by some miracle does at the same time as Javert, he doesn’t have any other way.
“I hate this,” he mumbles, pulling a pen from his jacket pocket. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.”
He scribbles his phone number down on a napkin.
“What are you doing?”
Valjean startles. Then he looks up, and up and up, to see Javert. He flushes.
“I—I was—here.” Valjean awkwardly shoves the napkin at Javert. “This has my phone number, if you want to call me. Ever. It’s not the flower shop’s, it’s my personal one. I have to go.”
He gathers up his coffee cup and hurries outside, heart hammering.
“It’s just to figure out the connection, Jean,” he whispers to himself. “Nothing else. He’s probably not even going to call you.”
Later, at home, Javert studies the napkin. It’s wrinkled from having been stuffed in his pocket, but the handwriting is still perfectly legible. He smoothes the side of the paper.
God, is Valjean actually interested in him?
Javert looks away from the napkin, holding his chin in a hand. Normally, he’d never do anything like this, if only for the fact he’s managed 47 years of life without a single romance. He doesn’t intend to start now. And he’ll be deceiving Valjean the entire time. But he has to figure out how he knows Valjean. It’ll torture him until he does.
Javert opens up the contacts app on his phone. Slowly, he punches in the phone number, and then the name Valjean. The phone creates the contact, beeping. He sets it down on the table beside him.
Javert closes his eyes, and he takes a deep breath.
He’s going to have scars in the shape of his fingernails by the time this whole affair is done.
• • •
A few days pass before Valjean hears from Javert. In the meantime, he worries. Perhaps the inspector won’t contact him, and he’ll never figure this out. Maybe he’s straight. And/or homophobic.
Then, on April 30th, he’s sitting in the cafe when he gets a text from an unknown number.
Valjean?
It’s Javert.
Valjean smiles and types out a short text. hi!
Do you want to go to dinner sometime?
He pauses, eyes on the message. He hadn’t realized that Javert would be so forthcoming. An odd feeling, as if he’s just done something creepy, crawls up Valjean’s spine. Part of him wishes Javert isn’t interested in him, so he wouldn’t have to deal with this.
okay, he texts back anyway. when are you free?
All day Friday.
are you okay with 6:30?
Sure. Where?
Again, Valjean pauses. He never goes out to eat, preferring to cook at home. Large groups of people, particularly restaurants, make him anxious. i don’t know any restaurants, he types.
Javert takes a few minutes to reply. How about Moretti’s?
that sounds good. moretti’s at 6:30 on friday.
It’s a date.
He takes a deep breath. He’ll only do this for as long as it takes to figure out where he knows Javert from. Then, Valjean will break it off with him as gently as he can.
“What are you doing?”
Valjean jumps, then looks up to see Simplice. She’s standing in front of his table, still in her work uniform.
“Nothing,” he says, flipping his phone over. Simplice raises an eyebrow.
She pulls a chair out and sits down. “Who were you texting?”
Valjean’s face heats. “I wasn’t texting anyone. Your hair looks nice, by the way.”
She runs a hand over her cornrows. “Thanks. I just got them done. But you’re avoiding the subject, Mr. Jean.”
“I told you, you don’t have to call me mister.” He fiddles with the phone. “And you’re sounding like Fantine.”
“Sim’s sounding like me?” Fantine calls from the counter. She vaults over it, walks over, and sits down. “Excellent. What she’s saying?”
Valjean doesn’t answer, just ducks his head down.
Suddenly Fantine’s hand darts out, snatching his phone. Valjean almost grabs her arm, but she’s too quick, and she jumps out of her chair to read the screen.
“Give that back!” Valjean protests.
Simplice nods. “Please do. It’s Jean’s phone, and you shouldn’t take it without permission.”
“Thank you!”
But a grin has crept over Fantine’s face, and it only grows as she reads the texts. Valjean turns redder. Finally, Fantine looks up, her expression gleeful.
“You were lying,” she says mischievously. “You are into him!”
“I am not!”
“Who are we talking about?” Simplice asks.
Fantine hands her the phone. “Javert. You know, the cop who comes around here a lot. Jean has a date with him.”
“What?” Simplice says, immediately shirking her honor code and looking down at the messages.
“It’s not a date.”
Fantine snorts. “He literally wrote the words ‘it’s a date.”
“That’s because he thinks it’s a date,” Valjean mumbles.
“What do you mean?” Simplice asks as she hands the phone back to him. Fantine sits down again, and an expression of shock flits across her face.
“Jean Valjean,” she says, leaning forward, “are you leading him on?”
“No. Maybe. Yes.”
Fantine tsks. “That’s very immoral of you. I feel like if he finds out, he’ll arrest you.”
“He can’t legally do that, love,” Simplice reminds her.
Valjean rests his head on the table. “I want to find out where I know him from, and this seems like the best way. I have a bigger problem anyway. Do either of you know what Moretti’s is?”
Fantine raises her eyebrows.
“What?” Valjean sighs.
“Moretti’s is a very classy Italian restaurant in downtown. Like, the waiters all wear suits. It’s been there for ages.” She peers at him. “How didn’t you know existed?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t gone out to eat for decades.”
“Good lord,” Simplice whispers.
“I doubt you have anything nice enough to wear to it,” Fantine observes.
“I have my yellow coat.”
Fantine shakes her head. “Your yellow coat is old and ugly. You can’t wear it.”
Valjean frowns. “Then what am I supposed to wear?”
Both Fantine and Simplice grin. “We’ll help you figure it out,” Simplice says.
Valjean ends up taking a cab to Moretti’s. He wouldn’t normally, and he almost had a panic attack hailing it, but Fantine made him do it. She said that he might end up drinking. He doubts he will.
He tips the driver heavily, then steps outside.
Even the outside of Moretti’s is imposing.
Inside, quiet chatter fills the air, music played softly over it. Valjean swallows a feeling of nervousness as he walks to the hostess station.
“Excuse me,” he says politely. “Can you help me?”
The young woman working as hostess looks up, smiling. “Do you have reservations for tonight?”
“Reservations?” Valjean asks. His nervousness returns.
“He’s with me.”
Valjean swivels round. Javert is walking through the doors, dressed in an impeccable gray suit. He holds up two fingers. “Reservation for two, under the name Javert.”
“Of course, Inspector. Just let me check.” The hostess does something on her screen, then nods. “It’s right here. Let me show you to your table.”
She grabs two menus, then motions for them to follow her.
Valjean pushes his anxiety away for the third time this night and lets the hostess lead them to a table. They sit. The hostess sets the menus on the table. “Your waiter will be here soon. Have a good meal, inspector,” She turns to Valjean. “Sir.”
Then she leaves.
“How does the staff know you?” Valjean asks, opening his menu.
Javert chuckles dryly. “My superiors always choose Moretti’s to hold office celebrations and whatnot. I’ve worked in the same precinct for the past sixteen years, so the staff knows me by now.”
“Ah.”
“You look nice.” Javert gestures to Valjean’s outfit. “It suits you.”
Valjean glances down at his clothes, feeling his face warm. He bought an entirely new outfit for tonight; navy slacks and jacket, a green tie, and nice brown shoes. Fantine supervised the entire time. “Thank you. You look rather nice yourself.”
“Oh, I…” the inspector’s gaze falls to the table. “Thanks.”
“Are you not used to be complimented?”
“I’m not, actually.”
Valjean frowns.
The two of them then sit in silence, deciding on the menu. But Valjean finds it’s not awkward—it’s actually bearable. Still, panic is slowly rising in his throat. There are far too many people here for him to be comfortable.
“Are you all right?” Javert asks eventually, after they’ve ordered their food. “You’re pale.”
Valjean shrugs. “I’m… not. I don’t know. I don’t deal very well with crowds.”
“Hm.” Javert glances over his shoulder. “Waiter, can you come over here?”
“What are you doing?”
“Helping. Hopefully. Ah, waiter, can you please bring Mr. Valjean a bottle of wine?” Javert asks.
The waiter nods. “What kind?”
“I don’t know.” He glances at Valjean. “Do you have a preference for any?”
Valjean shrugs helplessly. “Red? I don’t really drink.”
Javert sighs, then names some type of wine, and the waiter goes to fetch it. Valjean stares at him.
Finally, Javert catches on. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You ordered wine. For me. To calm me down.”
Javert sighs. “Look, I’m new at this. I don’t really have much experience, in the romance department, so forgive me if I’m doing something wrong.”
I’m so sorry for leading you on, Valjean thinks.
“I bet that you know more than me about this, so…” Javert taps his fingers. “Tell me if I’m doing something wrong. I don’t want.. to.”
“Javert?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re doing that thing with your fingernails again.”
He glances down at his hands. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Valjean nods, smiling, but part of him feels incredibly ashamed of himself. Javert is honestly trying hard to please him.
Why is he making the man waste his efforts on him?
By the time Valjean’s had a few glasses of wine, the feeling has vanished. He smiles much more freely, and his panic is gone.
He supposes it’s the alcohol. He’s not had much, and he isn’t quite drunk, but he isn’t sober either. He feels far more comfortable in Moretti’s right now then he ever would be without any wine in his system.
“You know,” he says, gesturing with his fork, “you wouldn’t believe some of the customers we get, how difficult they are.”
Javert raises his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yeah! There was a woman who came in last week and said she needed flowers for her daughter’s wedding. So Zephine asks her when they’ll need them by, and she says in four days. Zephine then says that we might be able to do it, but we’ll have to charge her extra since it’s on such short notice. The woman then claims to be my sister and threatens to get her fired. She actually said to Zephine that she’d be fired by the end of the day.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Valjean nods. “Not all my customers are as pleasant as you.” Then he turns red. “Oops.”
“Why oops? We’re on a date.”
“That is…” Valjean pauses. “Yeah.”
Javert snickers.
“What?”
“That is yeah.”
“Oh, come on,” Valjean protests. “I’m not used to drinking. I haven’t drunk alcohol in years. You can’t blame me for being incoherent at times.”
“And yet,” Javert says, resting his chin in his hand, “that was rather eloquent.”
“It comes and goes.”
Valjean swirls what’s left of the wine in his glass. “I know I said, earlier, that you looked nice. But your hair looks nice. I miss the bangs, though.”
He isn’t quite sure what he’s saying.
Javert touches the side of his head. “Trust me, no one else does. Thanks, though. I had to teach myself how to gel hair.”
“You put gel in your hair for me?”
“I had to do something. It’s Moretti’s.”
Valjean smiles. “This has been really fun tonight, actually.” Then he leans forward, pouring wine into Javert’s empty glass.
“Why’d you do that?” Javert asks, and his cheeks fill with color.
“I think I’m gonna do a toast.” What am I doing? But Valjean lifts his own glass in the air anyway, and searches his mind for something to toast to. Javert raises his glass cautiously.
“To life, Inspector,” Valjean says, almost in a teasing manner. “To yours and to mine.”
They clink glasses, then each throw back the little wine in their respective glass. And for some reason, Valjean doesn’t want to stop smiling.