Cremation & Gumbo (Javert;Casual)

[JANE EYRE]

;;outfit;;

Jane didn’t normally cook for her friends. This was for several reasons: one, her friends usually never visited her, not even after her move into a larger more beautiful space; two, Jane wasn’t well versed in cooking and always had the lingering fear of poisoning someone; three, she never had a reason to invite someone over and cook for them.

Her friendship with Philippe Javert though, caused some problems. Because he was a detective, it was hard for the two of them to find time to spend together. It was rather difficult to maintain a friendship when that was the case. So, Jane bit the proverbial bullet and invited Detective Javert to dinner at her place so they could catch up and just chat.

When deciding what to make that had the least chance of accidently killing her guest, Jane had to check out a few recipe books from the library. All of the books were along the lines of idiot proof cooking techniques. Thumbing through them, Jane settled on a pot pie. That seemed easy enough.

And it was easy enough while she was chopping the veg and making the crust (surprisingly). The real problem came with making the sauce to go in the pot pie while cooking up the chicken.

Jane discovered that night that it was embarrassingly easy to scorch a pan of milk.

Flustered, Jane completely forgot about the chicken on the stove right next to the saucepot as she tended to the scorched mess. The stench of burnt milk filled the kitchen and Jane wrinkled her nose in disgust. Dropping the pan in the sink and turning on the faucet, Jane wiped her hands on a towel in disappointment.

There was a knock on the door and Jane went to answer, completely oblivious to the chicken on the stove, that was now blackened and dangerously dry.

Opening the door, Jane smiled and tried not to look too frazzled. “Philippe! Come in!” Unbeknownst to Jane, her chicken which had already suffered a painful death now transitioned to the next part of death.

Cremation.

[NINA TENARDÍZ]

It wasn't a date.

He insisted. No matter how Athos teased him, this was not a date; sure, he would play along... maybe Liv had a right to tease him about it. But he hadn't been on a date in-- well... scratch that, he'd been on a date a month or so ago, and with Jane at that.

...Right, well, maybe it was a little questionable. To other people. Maybe. According to most of the world, Javert was unmovable like a rock, and about as interesting as one too. He'd learned that it was human nature to attribute either rock-like qualities or animal-like qualities to people you didn't like. Whatever "rock-like qualities" meant.

Even if it did appear to be something of that sort, he'd dismiss the speculation. At least they knew it was nothing... and she was nineteen. Not exactly his type, to say the least, and if he even had a type. Her company was enjoyable, and he wouldn't question it; he never questioned his own actions, simply because, most of the time, he was right.

Knock, knock, knock. He shifted from his heels to his toes, arms crossed, before she opened the door. Jane looked a bit disheveled-- or maybe frazzled was the right word, she looked great --and the distinct smell of burnt something floated through the doorway. He stepped in per her request and looked about quickly, then back at her. She'd picked startling colors for her kitchen, that was for sure.

"Bonsoir," he said, smiling slightly. He uncrossed his arms and picked at one of the buttons on his sleeve, which was out of line. "What's with th--" Javert, about to ask what she'd killed, spared a glance over her shoulder and noticed a thin curtain of grey smoke rising from her oven.

He blinked. "Um. Jane. Your kitchen is... smoking."

[JANE EYRE]

Jane shut the door behind Philippe and was about to offer to take his coat when he spoke.

. "Um. Jane. Your kitchen is... smoking."

“What?” Jane looked around Philippe and gaped at her smoking kitchen. “Oh goodness!” She exclaimed, hurrying into the kitchen. Grabbing the nearest oven mitt, Jane transferred the smoking pan into the sink and switched on the water.

The smell of overly charred chicken joined the stench of scalded milk. “Oh no! Dinner’s ruined!” Jane moaned. Her neatly chopped vegetables were still set aside, perfectly portioned but now useless.

Jane looked meekly over at Javert. "I am so sorry. I was making pot pies," Jane looked at the mess, feeling foolish. She had tried so hard to do well but had failed spectacularly.

[NINA TENARDÍZ]

As the little woman rushed to tend to her burning food, Javert made himself at home. He whipped off his jacket and hung it up near the door, and stepped in a little farther to examine the place. It was neat and crisp, but didn't lack color or femininity; she'd made it homey, like a little nest. A person's house always did say a lot about them. Jane obviously put a lot of stock into the label home.

A loud sizzling sound erupted from the kitchen, and he turned his head again toward the sink, where the flustered woman was fussing over the expired chicken. "Yeah, and it smells foul in here..." the detective mumbled, going to stand next to her over the vegetables.

"Pot pies, eh?" Javert looked over the ingredients she had lined up, some of which consisted of bell peppers and onions. It reminded him of gumbo, and a small smile came to his face. "Well, that sucks, doesn't it?" He glanced to her spice rack and was pleased to find it full. Gumbo... it'd been far too long since he'd had a good gumbo.

"You don't happen to have some more chicken, do you?"

[JANE EYRE]

Jane poked at her carefully chopped onions morosely. Everything had been going so well until the milk scalded. Looking up at Philippe, Jane nodded. “Yes. I bought more than I actually needed by accident,” Jane had ordered her chicken from the butcher like she always had but he had misunderstood her, giving her nearly double the amount. That meant that she had to pay for almost four pounds of chicken but it also meant that there was a backup plan.

Jane left her vegetables and got the chicken from the refrigerator. It was a combination of breast and thighs. According to the recipe, it would give it more flavour. While looking inside the ice box, Jane rattled off what else she had. “I have shrimp, cod, some sausage, and a small bit of bacon as well,”

Jane didn’t have any clue what to make now. She wasn’t a cook and always had to plan carefully for her meals. Creating on the fly never worked well for her. But then again, cooking at all never worked well.

Jane carried the package of chicken back over to Javert and told him that he had free reign of her kitchen. “It would probably be safer if I didn’t attempt to cook again tonight,”

[NINA TENARDÍZ]

"Excellent," he said, going back to the ice box and pulling out the sausage and shrimp and setting them with the chicken. "I hope you like spicy... I was thinking gumbo. Just like grand-maman made." He pulled a knife from the block and began to slice the fat off of the chicken. The quality of it lent the task to be simple, and he soon moved on to cutting up the sausage into small slices before setting both aside.

"You can sit around if you like. It'll be like half an hour to get all this in order..." He looked under her counter and pulled out a nearly Jane-sized pot, setting on the stove. He wandered away from it, opening her pantry and bringing out oil; as he passed the spice rack, he filled one hand with a few bottles and set them on the counter next to the pot. He poured in the oil and heated it. The gumbo was coming together pretty easily, and he liked that Jane had stepped back and just left it to him; it was easier this way.

Gradually, he added flour from one of the small tins on the counter, whisking it into a dark, golden-brown roux. It was then that he went back to the vegetables, adding them and beginning to shift them around. "So, ever had gumbo?" he asked, not looking up at her. "You don't really seem like the type to."

"You'll like it," he concluded, sliding the chicken and sausage in, blending it into the vegetables expertly. "You have chicken stock, right? Hand that over and we'll be set for awhile."

[JANE EYRE]

Jane had no problem stepping back and letting Javert take over. She was clumsy enough, she didn’t need to get in someone’s way to make their life any harder. Jane was equally glad that Philippe didn’t ask her to prep anything else. It had taken her too long to chop up the vegetables; she would be hopeless in this instant.

“Um, I’ve never really tried spicy food. I grew up in England, after all,” She didn’t feel the need to explain that English food was amazingly boring. Porridge in the morning, beans on toast in the afternoon, and some roast chicken and boiled potatoes for dinner.

Moving away to let Javert have as much space as he needed, Jane got them drinks instead. Lemonade. “I’ve never had gumbo before,” She confessed. She hadn’t had much of anything really. Her culinary experience was limited at best. The most exotic thing she had ever tasted was a mango.

Jane set off in search of chicken stock (she knew she had some somewhere) and continued speaking to Philippe with her head in a cupboard. “I’m not all that adventurous when it comes to food. I like my biscuits and my clotted cream but when I get the chance to try something different, like tiramisu,” Jane stumbled over the Italian word slightly. “I always decline,”

[NINA TENARDÍZ]

The detective smiled slightly. "Ah, tiramisu can't compare to gumbo made by a Javert. They're... two totally different animals, but it still can't compare." He reached behind to accept the chicken stock, adding it in one ladle-full at a time, incorporating the meat and vegetables. For some reason, he had started whistling 'The British Grenadiers' whilst he stirred, an amused smile on his face.

"Clotted cream?" he asked in between whistling, mouth curling in thinly-veiled disgust. "Go to bed. Let's hope your palate doesn't go into shock... I'm going to have to nurse it back to health, aren't I?" Javert tutted, shaking his head in disappointment. Again, he muttered, as if he couldn't believe it, "Clotted cream, zeerahb."

That was like three southern utterances in one sentence--gumbo did things to him, he realized with a slight shake of his head. He brought the pot to a rolling boil for a couple of minutes and then let it slow to a simmer, setting down his ladle. "Right, so, that needs to sit for... ha, an hour, maybe?" He reached for the timer in contemplation and then set it for 60 minutes.

Javert then turned to his hostess, leaning against the counter. "...So now what?"

[JANE EYRE]

Jane gaped at Philippe’s choice of phrasing. “Go to bed? I beg your pardon?” She asked sharply. What on earth did that mean? And what was wrong with clotted cream? Jane loved clotted cream. Especially from local dairies where the cream was fresh and not processed. It was one of the simplest pleasures in life and one that Jane had always been able to afford.

And then he went and used some word that Jane didn’t understand! How very rude of him. But, then again, this was Philippe Javert. Jane knew that she should be used to it by now. Gentility did not run in his veins.

Shaking her head at the time he had given, Jane shrugged. There wasn’t much by way of entertainment in her flat. She had a television but seldom used it. She hadn’t even figured out how to use the remote. “We can watch the telly I guess,” Jane motioned to the small set.

She wasn’t one for relaxation normally, she liked to keep busy with her art or her work. When she did have free time it was spent reading. Jane took the two glasses of lemonade and went to her couch, a rose colored piece with brass rivets at the base, and sat down.