Chapter Text
Bienvenu Food Truck. Javert taps his pen on the work order, contemplating the name. He rolls it over in his mind, trying to pin down the trace of familiarity. The name of the owner—Jean Valjean—stirs something vague in his memory, but, along with the name of the restaurant, he cannot place it. All he knows is that there have been several complaints from tourists about the cleanliness of the food truck.
The desktop in front of him is agonizingly slow, churning away as it tries to load a simple website. He pushes down the urge to hit the computer, remembering that this one is actually faster than the last one the department gave him. So he sits back in his chair uneasily, waiting for the food truck schedule to finally tell him where he should find the Bienvenu today.
The afternoon sun is hot, as per usual. Near unbearable humidity is a hallmark of home for Javert, but he can never seem to get used to it. He tugs at his collar as he drives, cranking up the air conditioning in his car, unfortunately in desperate need of repair that he will not have the money to fund for another two months. At the very least his hair is tied up, as always, neatly into a bun and away from his neck. Little difference it makes though; he can already feel sweat building on the back of his neck, on the small of his back.
The parking spot for the Bienvenu today is in an area of town filled with not only tourists, but also with what the tourists might call undesirables. Not an uncommon sight in New Orleans, to see people begging outside restaurants where people have just paid for food and have pocket change at the ready. It’s a strategy Javert was once well familiar with. It takes him far too long to find a parking spot, circling the block several times in a heat-induced, mild case of road rage. By the time he steps out of his car, he already feels the need to change his undershirt.
Now that the lunch rush has died down, only a few stragglers stand around the window to the truck, waiting for their orders. The truck itself, not unlike most food trucks, is loud and garish. In fact, it may be the most visually assaulting truck Javert has seen in recent memory—and he has inspected his fair share. A mass of sunflower yellow is difficult to miss, even in the sea of bright colors on the streets of New Orleans.
As he approaches, a pair of arms appear in the window. Gloved: a good sign so far. Then the rest of a man pops out of the truck, leaning down to hand a couple two takeout containers. He waves them off and looks up, leaning on the window with an easy smile. Not quite easy exactly—there is something mask-like about it, not quite the same mask as a practiced customer service smile.
“What can I get you, sir?”
Only when Javert steps under the awning does he get a better look at his face. He looks far too young to have white hair, but his mop of snowy curls is tied up safely in a bandana. Another good sign. His frame is wide, but strong, and his arms may as well be tree trunks straining under his rolled sleeves. This shouldn’t be a detail relevant to Javert’s needs, but he notes it all the same. He is suddenly aware again of the sweat pooling on his back. This damn weather.
“A look inside the truck, if you could,” Javert says, holding up his badge. “Are you the owner?”
The man takes a long hard look at his badge, moving his gaze back and forth between Javert and the tiny picture of him in his hand. He squints for a moment and looks at Javert as if he expects him to say something more. When Javert does not, he lifts his head again.
“I am,” he says, holding out his hand. “Jean Valjean, a pleasure to have you, Inspector…”
“Javert,” he finishes, ignoring Valjean’s outstretched hand. Instead he goes to pull a clipboard and pen from his satchel as Valjean’s arm falls limply.
“Well,” Valjean says, “I’ll open up the back. Come on around.”
Taking a few notes, Javert walks around to the back of the truck where Valjean, and only Valjean, stands at the open door. Before anything else can come to mind, he is hit with a litany of savory smells he cannot begin to name or parse. Southern comfort is not an uncommon theme for restaurants in the city, but this particular truck brings up old memories Javert is unwilling to delve too deeply into at the moment.
The first thing that strikes him as he takes the steps up into the truck is how much shorter Valjean is than him, and the second is how low the ceiling is. Javert has always been tall, but somehow the Bienvenu feels even more lacking in space. He can feel himself craning his neck down as he begins to check the premises, asking clipped questions and taking orderly notes on his clipboard. A small radio plays in the corner; old jazz. The space feels utterly too confining, and he startles himself by even contemplating that it exudes loneliness.
To his surprise—and frustration, he admits—there is nothing he can fault him for. He scours the kitchen, the cookware, the pantry, the fridge. It all seems spotless, in complete order and sufficiently to code. Far surpassing it, even. Still he cannot shake the strange feeling that sits in the pit of his stomach looking at Valjean. The man seems far too nervous for someone with such an impeccable kitchen. It was not apparent at first, but he can feel the tension radiating from Valjean’s shoulders, his stance. Subtle, but all too obvious to anyone paid to be as observant as Javert.
“Anything else I can do, Inspector?”
Javert looks up from his notes and studies him for a scarce moment. Taking a final look around, he clicks his pen and deposits it back in his shirt pocket. The heat of the range and the confinement of the truck has him sweating even more, and he finds himself eager to leave both the truck and Valjean’s expectant stare.
“You’ll be getting a call if anything is a problem,” he says gruffly.
“My offer still stands, though,” Valjean adds.
Javert stiffens. “Offer?”
“For lunch. Late lunch, at this point. I could fix you up a plate to go-”
“It’s not necessary to bribe me, sir,” Javert hisses.
Valjean blanches immediately. “It’s not my intention to. Just thought you might want-“
“No, thank you,” Javert says, already turning on his heel and bending to exit the truck. He stops at the end of the steps and swiftly pulls out a business card from his bag and holds it out. “Just so you have my information.”
Standing at the edge of the doorway, Valjean takes the card. He thinks for a moment and seems to remember something. “Wait here a second,” he says, shuffling back into the truck. Javert waits until Valjean returns with what looks like a dusty business card of his own.
“Ah,” Javert says, somewhat warily.
“The truck schedule is usually online but, you know that already I guess,” he says. Still there is an edge of worry to him, buries under several layers of something else Javert cannot quite pin. “What I mean to say is, feel free to come back any time.”
“If you play your cards right, you shouldn’t hope to see me again,” Javert says. “You have a good afternoon Mr. Valjean.”
He walks away then, the smell of hush puppies not quite leaving him until he slams the door to his car shut.
It isn’t long before a work order shows up on his desk for the Bienvenu . He scowls at Valjean’s business card, turning it over in his hand. The memory is just shy now of coming to him, like a burner about to light. He waits for the snapping lighter to stop, for the flames to come alive and illuminate the fuzzy recollection.
Again, the weather is far too hot to be sitting in his car like this. He sighs, once again slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking to the food truck parked not far away.
“Back so soon?” Valjean asks. He looks oddly resigned, as if expecting bad news.
“Looking that guilty isn’t helping your case,” Javert says. He starts to open his mouth again to speak, but Valjean gestures that he move aside as a customer walks up to the window.
A woman walks up, asking for a po’ boy; Valjean obliges, popping back in the truck for a few short minutes before returning with the sandwich. In the meantime, Javert sizes the woman up. She clearly knows Valjean by the way she carries herself around the truck, the comfortable way she smiles. Clearly, Javert notices, she is homeless, and he quickly wonders if she even has the money to pay.
But then Valjean is handing her the sandwich with that easy, guarded smile, and she cheerily walks away. It takes Javert several moments of looking back and forth between them for him to form any words.
“Did you intend to let that woman rob you?”
“She hasn’t taken anything I wouldn’t give freely,” Valjean says, shrugging. “It’s hot out today, probably hard to be out asking for money.”
Javert gives him a disdainful, hard look, before taking out his clipboard. “Well I am here to work for a living today.”
“Right,” Valjean says, leaning down on the windowsill. “What have I done this time, then?”
“We’ve received another complaint about the state of the premises,” Javert says neutrally, flipping through his notes.
“Hm,” Valjean says. “In regards to what? I can’t say the kitchen has changed much since the last time, but you’re free to come in.”
“I’ll make that judgement myself.”
The kitchen is, as promised, as spotless as the last time. Javert stands in the center of the truck, tapping his pen on his clipboard in irritation. “Do you have your permits?” he asks.
An alarmed look comes over Valjean’s face; he suddenly looks pale. Even so, he nods and heads to the front of the truck to rummage through the glove box. His eyes are serious as he hands over his papers and uncharacteristically crosses his arms.
Javert’s eyes scan over the paperwork. Nothing sparks then, nothing that can point him towards a reason to give any sort of citation. He nods sternly and hands the papers back and speaks only as he begins to exit the back of the truck.
“A word of advice, sir. If you don’t want so many calls I would keep the riff raff away from your truck.”
“I think I can give food to whoever I like,” Valjean calls after him. “And apart from that, everyone deserves to eat.”
Javert spins around at that point, looking up at Valjean with wide eyes that certainly betray him. Memories start flooding his mind of a restaurant, a familiar face, a fraudulent loan. An infuriatingly generous owner and a memorable inmate. He cannot even conjure a remark to answer him, and walks back to his car in stunned confusion.
The health inspector does not return for some time. Luckily, it seems like no tourists have made any more calls about homeless people coming to the Bienvenu , but even that is preferable to them calling the police over it. It’s happened before, and will certainly happen again.
Valjean could tell from the look in his eyes at that moment. If Javert had not remembered before, he surely remembers him now. He supposes it can be easy enough to forget a face after nearly ten years. After all, his hair has turned a shocking shade of white in that time; Valjean can scarcely recognize himself in the mirror when he makes the mistake of looking for too long.
In any case, Inspector Javert seems driven as ever as he pounces upon one of the food trucks across the way. Valjean and several other trucks have parked on this particular day near a cluster of offices, hoping to catch desk workers at their break. The afternoon is late, and only a few stragglers stand squinting in the sun, deciding where to pick up their exceptionally late lunch.
Trying to get some marginally fresh air, Valjean leans out the truck window and watches Javert from afar. It looks as if he wrote a couple tickets, handing them over to the clearly distressed owner. He heads over to what must be his car, an old junker of a sedan that looks like it could fall apart any minute. Javert opens the trunk, deposits his bag inside before walking aside and fumbling with something in his hand. A cigarette and lighter, Valjean realizes. He loosens his tie slightly before taking a long drag and leaning on his car. His shoulders droop, and he looks the most relaxed Valjean has ever seen him.
Before Valjean can catch himself, his eyes go to Javert’s face, staring directly at him. While there is something accusing in his expression, there is also a trace of what Valjean can only call confusion. Curious enough, he waves to Javert, gesturing for him to come over.
Javert looks around at first, as if assuming Valjean were looking at someone else. Valjean sighs, waving to him again and nodding. With a grimace and another look around, Javert sighs as if defeated and walks across the road. There is no traffic on the side street to speak of, but Javert pointedly goes out of his way to use the crosswalk.
“Inspector,” Valjean calls as he walks up. “Did you get lunch yet today?”
The grimace has not quite left Javert’s face as he holds up the cigarette. “You’re looking at it.”
Valjean feels it’s his own turn to grimace as Javert lets out several neat puffs of smoke. For a moment he thinks they may just stare at one another in silence until Javert suddenly speaks.
“When did you get the truck, then?”
At first, Valjean is taken aback. But, of course, he would bring it up now. Now that Javert remembered. “Well,” Valjean starts, “It would have been hard to get another property loan after Madeleine’s closed. The truck seemed like the easiest thing.”
“To fly under the radar?” Javert says snidely.
Valjean sighs, leaning more heavily and looking aside. “I asked you over to offer you lunch. Do you want it or not?”
“Does it look like it?” Javert asks. He takes another drag, looking across the street at the other trucks. Both are silent for a few minutes, and again Javert can hear the soft sound of Valjean’s radio from inside the truck. Javert scowls in the sunlight, crossing his arms. “Why do you bother?”
“Pardon?”
“With the bums. Why do you bother?”
“They need a meal, I have a meal. There’s no problem there.”
“Aside from the money.”
“That’s no problem either.”
Javert turns to him slowly with a look of near-righteous anger in his eyes. He turns back ahead swiftly, taking one last inhalation before stamping out his cigarette on the asphalt.
It takes him several tries to start his car as he leaves.
The next time he sees Javert, he is not even in the food truck; their meeting is entirely random. Valjean slows down from his jog, hands on his hips as he breathes deeply and stares at Javert. Again he is smoking, leaning on his parked car and looking out over the river. The spot is isolated, a place Valjean favors for a quiet evening workout.
“Are you following me?” Javert says dryly. “Trying to take revenge? Push me into the Mississippi?”
Valjean wipes the sweat from his brow, looking at him, puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but— ha— I sometimes— ha— run here-“ he breathes and Javert watches, taking a slow drag. “You know I— ha— I don’t blame you, right?“
“You don’t blame me for getting Madeleine’s shut down,” he says placidly. Unconvinced, to say the least.
Exhaling, Valjean runs a hand through his hair. “It was— ha— me that lied to get the loan. You just pointed them in the right direction.” Privately, he muses that no banker would dare give a loan like that to a felon. Something tells him that would be far from what Javert wants to hear. “Whatever. It’s not important.” He exhales. “What are you doing here?”
Of all things, Javert looks furious. Still he does not move to get into his car and drive away. He only looks at the murky water below the cliffside, contemplating for a moment. “I come here to get away from things,” he says, almost to no one in particular.
“To think?” Valjean supplies.
“No.”
“Something on your mind?”
“Listen to me,” Javert says, now staring directly at him with icy eyes. He points at Valjean with his cigarette, fuming. “I worked for everything I have. I started from nothing— less than nothing—and didn’t need any charity to get where I am.”
“I didn’t say you did-“
“So I don’t think you’re doing anyone any favors going around giving handouts so people won’t have to help themselves for once.” He finishes off the last of his cigarette, pulling out another and struggling for several moments to catch a light in the wind. Valjean is partly tempted to offer a hand, but he knows it would only provide kindling to the fire.
“What?” Javert snaps, finally looking at Valjean again.
It seems pointless right now to convince Javert of anything, and he hardly wants to in the first place. Javert is a shadow of the past, just another damning piece in the convergence of events that forced him to lose his business, to lose his freedom for the second time. Still, Javert is simultaneously so easy to read and so difficult to figure out. Despite it all, though, he knows he should afford him some measure of compassion, however undeserved. It makes him think of himself, young and furious and fresh out of jail. If Myriel could have the patience, Valjean tells himself, then he would at least attempt to do the same.
He studies Javert, who still looks at him, perhaps expecting him to give some sort of lecture. But it is late in the day, he has his run to finish, and Cosette will be expecting him soon. And, in all honesty, he does not have the patience tonight.
“…Nothing,” Valjean says. “I’ll see you around.”
Javert says nothing as Valjean begins to jog again, and only the rushing sound of the Mississippi remains in his ears.