Chapter Text
Jean had spent a considerable amount of time fixing his hair, even has the best suit on, but at the welcome home party, he's still miserable.
"Light up a little." Pieck finds him next to the wine table. She's in a casual black blazer; a dress would be too attention-seeking, she said.
"I underestimated that it feels so much, much worse being back." He twirls an empty glass, watching the hall bursts into lively dancing and chatter.
"The townsfolk needed this more than us, don't you think?" Pieck sips another.
Connie is across the hall dancing with a much younger woman who appears amused at whatever he says. Reiner is sat at a corner, worn-looking, talking to another officer. Armin does the courteous thing of doing what they're supposed to do; selling the peace.
"I'll be back." Jean murmurs, just loud enough for Pieck to hear.
He slips out of the hall, fumbles in his pockets, and pulls out a cigarette box. He doesn't stop walking.
*
Eren never had a funeral. The tombstone stands lonely up a hill, under a tree. The flowers placed in front of it still look fresh.
The sun sets in twenty minutes. He looks up, then around.
As if he's expected her to be there, it doesn't startle him as much.
"I was waiting for you to show up." He says.
"Here?" There's a maturity to his former comrade that doesn't warrant explanation. He wrote her all those letters, and she replied, probably once.
"At the dinner, actually."
It's like seeing an old friend, nothing more, nothing less. It's been three years after all. Mikasa walks up the hill, and joins him at the tombstone. Her hair is longer like before, like before all of it.
And the way she dresses now, you wouldn't think she was in the Corps. A soft cotton dress, light and wavy, like the one you'd get for your wife.
"Aren't you supposed to be at the dinner?" She points out.
"I did. Went, left. You know."
They fall quiet. From the hills, the town looks miniscule. He still remembers every nooks and cranny, and that is the hard part, how ghostly the town is, although parts of it have been destroyed and rebuilt.
"You should come and say hi. Armin's been looking for you."
"How is he?"
"Doing his best."
"I thought of coming a little late. See if I can catch him on the way back."
Jean smirks faintly, tries not to take offense if she's avoiding the rest of them, including himself.
"You've had a little too much to drink." The comment pulls him out of his dooziness. He was already drinking before the party, and he can smell the booze in his breath.
When he finally turns to really look at her, it feels like a slap on the face. Of course, the first time in years that he sees her again, he's not even sober.
"I'm a little out of it." He admits.
*
Jean doesn't remember when or how that it was possible for him to throw up. But he's at Mikasa's now.
A small cabin nearby. When he's hazily staring at the ceiling, sat on a one-seater couch, Mikasa is by the sink washing a piece of cloth.
The top of of his white shirt is unbuttoned. His blazer is hung on another chair.
The cabin smells like a morning market's essential oils. Woody. Flowery. It's hardly decorated, just practical. A shelf with books. A radio. A kitchen cabinet, fresh fruits on the counter.
"Mikasa." He finally calls her name, the first time in years.
"Yeah?" She turns around, so she's still real.
"I'm sorry."
"I've seen you worse."
*
When Jean wakes up from his nap, a familiar voice drifts in from the verandah.
"I leave again in two days." It's Armin's. "Jean can stay if he wants. He'll be good company."
Armin is less it's-all-business when he wants to be. "He'd be more than happy to tail you around, you know that more than anyone."
"It's been years."
"You'd be surprised what can't change in years."
"Well, you've changed." Mikasa's tone is casual, non-accusative, like it's just some fact.
"So have you."
The next thing he hears are footsteps, and Armin's lively remark upon seeing him. "Oh, you're awake. The royal house was a bit worried that the Captain was missing."
"How did you know I was here?"
"I didn't come looking for you. I came to see Mikasa."
"Oh."
"God, you need to slow down with the drinks."
"What did I hear about me staying? Are you leaving me?"
"We need to build rapport here too. I trust you're the man to do it." He says it like it's already decided.
Jean gives him a look. Armin has gotten so tall, and his eyes have become dark. A politician's gaze—Connie calls it.
It doesn't take long until the facade of oh, we need to build rapport drops. "Annie will be here. She'll be with her dad. But I don't trust her to be alone."
Mikasa glances at Jean when he says this, then back at Armin.
"So you want me to look after your girlfriend?" Jean reclarifies flatly.
"The anti-Marleyan sentiments are still strong here. And her dad is sick."
"What about you?" Mikasa adds, a tinge of concern in her voice as much as she tries to hide it.
"I can take care of myself. Connie, Pieck, and Reiner will be with me."
"You could've ask Connie." Jean says.
"It would be easier if it's you, isn't it?" It's easy to miss when Armin means it like an order, but Jean never misses it.
*
The Captain's quarters used to be Levi's. No one has entered it in months. The air is stale. The tables and chairs are wooden, lined with dust. Jean finds a half-empty bottle of wine in one of the drawers, pours himself a glass, and sits with his legs dangle away from the table, facing the window.
At 10 AM, the last person he'd expect to appear by the door is Mikasa. She's in a black sleeveless shirt, and washed blue jeans, hair tied up neatly appropriate for the quarters.
He notices her eyes flickering towards his glass.
"Morning." Jean's voice hesitated, caught off guard.
"I was helping Annie packing." She explains quickly.
"Oh, do you need help?"
She pauses, thoughtful, a finger on her nose. Then, quietly, "What happened to you?"
"What?"
"Armin told me about what happened in Restate."
Restate. Jean feels tinily bertrayed. Suddenly, this feels like he's in some elaborate plan.
"Nothing happened in Restate." He says flatly, eyes fixed on hers, like if he cowers away even from a second, then Mikasa will see right through him.
"In case if you're not told this enough, I want you alive." When she says this, he remembers again how she was a soldier first. She says it so coldly, like she's maybe even angry. He just can't tell if it's towards him or herself.
Jean just nods. Mikasa leaves.
*
At the luncheon before the ship’s departure, Armin is sat at the pantry observing the bigger gathering outside. Families and friends of the sailing batch with balloons and cakes at the courtyard.
When Jean finds him, standing remorseful by the door, he looks up like he's expected what's coming. Jean sits on the bar stool next to him.
"You told Mikasa about Restate? What's this all about?"
"She needs to know what she's in for."
Jean rolls his eyes in disbelief. "You're asking her to babysit me now? Armin, this is so unnecessary."
"You smell like alcohol right now. It's barely noon." Armin’s frown is tight, his frustration hidden behind the polite hum of the room.
"It was a one time thing." Jean says.
"You almost died in Restate." Armin reminds him, the roughness in his voice is quiet and sharp. "And you were begging to die."
"You're not fit for duty." He adds, and then, he keeps going, softer, "I'm doing you a favour." Armin waits for an explosion, or something. But Jean says nothing.
He was blindsided with how Restate had taken up a significant deal of Armin's assessment of him.
"Maybe some time off from travel is a good change." Armin's voice is stripped of command, sounding almost guilty now.
The silence in his office is almost defeaning. It's been two days since Armin left. Pile of papers he's supposed to sign, a couple of rookies walking in and out with reports, and a wine-less table.
"Captain, these are the list of items Commander Armin would want you to sign."
"Thanks, um, Jasper." He reads the rookie's tag. In fact, he doesn't think there's much difference to their age. Jean still feels like he's aged twenty years.
He stares at the corner of the paper: Annie's home address.
*
Annie is not the talkative type, unlike Pieck who has ten different ideas every day, but the three years of sail, Jean has had numerous dinners with her, sometimes just the two of them.
So it's not exactly uncharted territory.
"Don't you get tired that he's always orchestrating everything?" Jean attempts to break ice. He's at Annie's new house now, and the document that he signed earlier was just a list of new furniture that Armin ordered for her.
It had to go through him, because of Annie's hidden identity as a Marleyan.
"You're just upset that you got left." Annie cuts a box open with a cutter.
She's right. He's still mad about it.
"Anything else I can help?"
"Um, Mikasa dropped by earlier with some basic supplies. Some soap, shampoo, more soap, um, toothbrush."
"You two are friends now?" Jean says, indifferent. He stands by the door, pulling out a cigarette.
"We're not chatting over tea or anything." Annie is less of an idealist than Armin. So it's easy for her to appreciate people as they are.
"She seems to be doing better." She says suddenly, well-meaning, before looking up as if she'd get a reaction out of him.
Jean says nothing because he agrees. He doesn't quite believe it though.
*
The friendship he built with Annie is on the basis of zero expectations. She'd never say a thing when he pops a bottle, or when he smokes two packs of cigarette in a day.
Or when he naps on her couch, still in his uniform when he's supposed to be in office, only awoken to the sound of Mikasa talking.
"What's for dinner?" He walks into the kitchen with a lazy, forced grin. It's a way of greeting.
"I'm leaving already." Mikasa says. She is sat at the dining table with a glass of water. Annie stands by the sink counter, a chocolate cracker between her fingers.
"Oh, why so early?"
"It's 11 PM." Annie points out. "You slept the whole evening."
Jean presses his tongue against his lower teeth. "I'll walk you home?" He looks at Mikasa.
"No need the trouble."
"I want the trouble." He almosts insist. When Mikasa concedes, they both know she's doing him a favour.
*
At a normal pace of walking, Annie's house to Mikasa's takes about 15 minutes. Jean is quiet all the way because he wants to be.
Being quiet with each other isn't hard, settling around them like an old habit after years of not seeing each other, when you went through the most traumatic event one could live through together.
At the door, Mikasa's coldness is gone. It's the same look she had on when she called out Restate at his office two days ago, but without disappointment.
Just pity.
"Armin was just worried about you."
"I know." Jean warms his hands in his pockets. His green uniform hangs open, unbuttoned, white t-shirt visible beneath.
Mikasa looks at his shoes then up again, like she's hesitating. "Do you want to come in?"
"It'll be a bad idea."
"Why?"
"You know why." Jean waits for the door to close on him, remembering vividly the night they had sex weeks before he left to sail, not exactly how it happened, but how he felt. And how he felt after.
That it was even possible to be heartbroken over many things at once.
She swallows. "...I'm sorry I didn't reply to your letters. Maybe if I did—"
"Mikasa," His voice cuts through hers. And before he could stop himself, "There's absolutely nothing that you could or can do that would stop me from feeling so fucking shitty about everything."
He looks away, somewhere near her cheek, ashamed upon admitting that. Even in the dark he could see her eyes glisten.
The quiet stretches thin. Then Mikasa steps closer. She lifts a hand and touches the space just below his ear, thumb brushing the side of his neck. She leans in, slow, uncertain, her lips grazing the edge of his collarbone.
“I just didn’t know what to say.”
Her voice barely reaches him.
Jean exhales, lowers his face into the curve of her neck, and what started as a hug changes into something more forbidden. He kisses her neck, and she lets him.
*
Inside, the lights in her cabin are dim. Outside, crickets.
Mikasa sits on the edge of the bed, her forehead level with his waist.
"You don't have to do it if you don't want to." He says quietly. He's sober enough to not have her do it out of pity, but the look on her face is not of pity. Not at all. It's a lack of innocence that makes him catch his breath. He couldn't imagine seeing her like this years ago.
"I want to," she whispers, barely audible. A finger hooks into his waistband, pulling him closer, and he can feel the deliberate weight of her choice.
Jean’s breathing stutters. The faint sound of the zipper follows. When he's finally inside of her mouth, she does it in a way like it's nothing personal.