(no subject)
Javert knew how to cook.
He swore he did.
So cooking he was; a roast with potatoes and carrots, rosemary and basil. He was trying hard to please Valjean and his tastebuds. If he was going to make something for dinner, he was going to make something good. Just as long as, you know, he didn't burn the kitchen down.
The Inspector was in a good mood, and this was proven by the way he hummed a delightful little tune under his breath. He didn't have a horrible singing voice, but he didn't have a perfect one, either. It was fine and in tune, and that's all that mattered. To him, at least. If he can cook and sing, then everything was dandy.
The roast was almost done. Valjean was nowhere to be seen - to his eyes - and Javert only hoped he hadn't eaten already. Propping open a book, he read a little mystery novel as he cooked some pasta to go with the roast, stirring the strands leisurely. Soon enough he was caught up in the literature, resting back against the counter and reading intently.
Lo and behold! The pasta water overflowed! And right onto Javert's arm, too. Javert jolted and flung the book across the room as a reaction, clutching his burnt arm to his chest. He cursed loudly, hurriedly turning the water down and gingerly rolling his sleeve up to inspect his flesh. Ow.
He wasn't so hurt that he couldn't remove the now-finished pasta from the stove, and so he did just that, straining the pasta and pouring it all into a bowl. He checked on the roast, made sure it was done, and tended to his arm. Still, ow.
Running cold water over his wound, Javert grumbled as he did this and sighed. How embarrassing.
Thankfully, Valjean saw none of that.
.. right?
He swore he did.
So cooking he was; a roast with potatoes and carrots, rosemary and basil. He was trying hard to please Valjean and his tastebuds. If he was going to make something for dinner, he was going to make something good. Just as long as, you know, he didn't burn the kitchen down.
The Inspector was in a good mood, and this was proven by the way he hummed a delightful little tune under his breath. He didn't have a horrible singing voice, but he didn't have a perfect one, either. It was fine and in tune, and that's all that mattered. To him, at least. If he can cook and sing, then everything was dandy.
The roast was almost done. Valjean was nowhere to be seen - to his eyes - and Javert only hoped he hadn't eaten already. Propping open a book, he read a little mystery novel as he cooked some pasta to go with the roast, stirring the strands leisurely. Soon enough he was caught up in the literature, resting back against the counter and reading intently.
Lo and behold! The pasta water overflowed! And right onto Javert's arm, too. Javert jolted and flung the book across the room as a reaction, clutching his burnt arm to his chest. He cursed loudly, hurriedly turning the water down and gingerly rolling his sleeve up to inspect his flesh. Ow.
He wasn't so hurt that he couldn't remove the now-finished pasta from the stove, and so he did just that, straining the pasta and pouring it all into a bowl. He checked on the roast, made sure it was done, and tended to his arm. Still, ow.
Running cold water over his wound, Javert grumbled as he did this and sighed. How embarrassing.
Thankfully, Valjean saw none of that.
.. right?