Jean thinks the air might have shifted between him and Mikasa just slightly, though he always kept room for being wrong, realising he might be seeing things the way he wants them to be.
Visibly, nothing much has changed. He still makes her breakfast, and he still does not see her in the morning, on most days. On some lucky days, she makes it to the table right before he is heading out. She doesn't say much, except for, "Bye" but those days, he is absolutely sure nothing can ruin his day. On his long commute to work, he has to shut his more eager side down, reminding it that he shouldn't get too excited about anything related to Mikasa. He has to temper his feelings for her. There is no place for that in their "marriage". That word still sounds surreal to him, and he tries not to dwell too much on its technicalities.
When he returns, he is just as pleased to find her at the stove. She only glances at him from the corner of her eye, and greets him with a simple, "Hi" or, "You're back" but that much is enough to make him feel like the luckiest man alive. Dinner is always peaceful, and her cooking is steadily improving, if he had to put it mildly. He would probably never tire of it, even if she did keep it simple.
He believed in, however, keeping life exciting. While he loved living with her and just being around her, he was used to a life of travel, where he did not get to stay in one place for more than a few months. Armin kept them busy with rigorous schedules and extensive travelling. He thinks at least part of that was not related to any strategy but the blonde's own desire to explore the world, or whatever was left of it.
He had had his fun, seeing things, eating things, reading things all previously unknown. It had aroused his curiosity and thirst for knowledge as well. He knew he had an interest in it right from their Marley days when he had volunteered to do the reconnaissance and was even able to pick up their writing system well enough to scope out their newspapers.
All that is a thing of the past.
He now indulged himself with smaller amounts of exploration with a job that required him to continue his correspondence with the nations he had visited, exchanging proposals on technologies to be imported and Paradis' bargain in return. He spent his nights reading some of the older Marleyan literature, thinking of ways to transplant such ideas into Paradis. He was in the dangerous position of being somewhere in between prison and a respected, home-grown senior officer with more experience under his belt than a lot of his superiors. It left him with few friends, but he hardly cared. He got the life he worked so hard for; a beautiful wife who was worth every sacrifice, a cushy job in the interior and enough money to cultivate his interest in fine wine. Prime real estate could come later.
He is particularly proud of himself today as he places a device on the table that has Mikasa puzzled. "A telephone? Here?"
"That's right! Turns out, I have some important assignments coming up that would require my urgent, very expert opinion. Historia thinks it is too troublesome summoning me to the orphanage or Royal Capital every time, especially given our delicate position on the island. And so, we get to keep this in the house!"
Mikasa frowns, examining the buttons and receiver, poking it with suspicion. "Doesn't this cost more than this house?"
"I'm glad you noticed." He grins wider, baring his chest out further, "I also happen to be specifically, a very senior official in the Import of Technology division. I said I need it for research purposes, to figure out how to cut costs and increase domestic usage across Paradis. So, for now, we only need to pay for the electricity. Impressed?"
"I won't be needing it really. I would also rather not pay an arm and leg just to hear a hello from Armin from the other side when I could just as easily write him a nice letter," she says matter-of-factly, putting a dampener on Jean's enthused mood.
"It's just much quicker. Plus, now you can contact me any time too while I'm at work," he tries to emphasise on the second half, hoping she would take the bait.
"Why would I need to do that? You're only gone for a few hours," she goes back to doing the dishes.
"I could be gone for longer. But more importantly, during emergencies." He switches to a graver tone, "It's not that far-fetched for your existence here to be threatened by the Yeagerists."
"You're being paranoid. I've been here for at least four years now, and no one has bothered with my presence."
"Because they don't know."
"How will they? Who would tell them? Historia? Armin? Connie? You?" She turns to look at him, her arms folded across her chest, annoyed marring her feautures.
"Of course not." He crosses the table to get to her, and puts his arms on her shoulders, guilty that he had struck a nerve somehow or reminded her of a fear she had long assuaged. He looks at her straight in the eye, "But I worry. Our circle is small and close knit, and still somewhat doing okay in terms of a balance of power. That could change any time. Hizuru could make a move to get you off the island. Anything can happen. I want you to live in peace, and I also want you to be careful."
She looks at his hand on her shoulder, before removing it, looking back at him, "You know I can take care of myself. You're speaking like you know something."
"I know. And no, there isn't anything like that that you specifically need to know. It's stupid but knowing I can get to you quickly gives me some peace. If there is ever any external attack, this would be the first place to-"
"You won't be able to do anything in that situation anyway. You still work in Stohess, don't you?"
He sighed. "You're pretty stubborn, aren't you? Anyway, look, someone is going to come by tomorrow and set this up." He adds in a softer tone, "Feel free to use it, okay?"
"Alright." She heads to the kitchen sink to wipe the dishes she had washed. "I just hope I never need to."
The more he spoke to Mikasa, the more he was understanding that there were things she said, and then there were things she meant to say. Even if she came off as harsh and sceptical, it was starting to dawn on him that usually, it was her being self-protective more than anything. He wondered whether she similarly understood what he was trying to say to her.
Mikasa wondered sometimes how Jean was so patient with her. She was trying to change her ways bit by bit, finding that it was no effort at all to come out of her room at night and watch him pour over books in front of the fire he would often so graciously build, or next to the lamp on warmer days. Or step out in the morning rather than staring at the door blankly, trying to erase the lingering memories of her nightmares, just in time to at least bid him a goodbye. It was becoming so much of a routine, that she can't believe that not even these basic things had come to her earlier.
She particularly likes to watch him read from atop their staircase. His concentration was admirable and made her sometimes wish she was doing more with her life. Retiring from the military was a choice she desperately needed to make for herself. As it is, her situation was precarious, having betrayed Paradis and killed Eren. But sometimes, when she saw Jean taking notes, or refer to the thick dictionary that had recently been printed, she wonders what life outside must be like. Her entire days were only spent between their home, the market, the orphanage, and of course, the grave.
She ascends the stairs softly, hoping to not catch his attention much as she sits next to him on the sofa in front of the fire, with a paper and pen in hand. His attention shifts to her immediately, as he asks, surprised, "Are you writing a letter?"
"Yes, it's been a while. Thought I should reply to Armin at least," she reveals a short stack of letters under the paper she had brought. "Your telephone reminded me that I don't actually write back to anyone much."
"I know," he says wistfully. "Those three years, you were very quiet."
"You noticed?" She raises her eyebrows. She could understand Armin noticing the absence of her response. She thought her other friends and comrades would not be as bothered. She had never given them much.
"Of course, Mikasa. Why wouldn't I?" He directs his attention back to the book with strange letters printed on it. "I had written to you too. It's hard not to notice that I never received a reply," he finishes sans any malice.
She directs her gaze downwards, feeling bad that she had unwittingly been this rude. The three years when her friends weren't able to visit at all were the hardest. She had to deal with her grief alone, but now that she thought about it in hindsight, she ought to have responded to the people who had at least taken the care to check in on her. Letters itself from the traitors of Paradis would have gone through difficult trials to reach her.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realis-"
"Hey, it's all okay now. You've made it up to me at least ten-fold by now," he lets out a light laugh, momentarily meeting her eyes, as she blushes and looks away at the sudden eye contact.
The fire crackles in the background in their comfortable silence of scratching pens and turning pages. She can't help but give him side glances. His profile in the fire looked regal as he immerses himself in the pages in front of him.
An envy fills her. There was so much he had seen, knows, that she did not. She was never the curious one out of her childhood trio but it was becoming more and more clear to her that there were still parts of herself that she had never known, waiting to be explored.
"Hey Jean, do you think you could maybe…" She twitches her shoulders together, embarrassed at what she proposed to ask, as he looked at her questioningly. "That maybe you could teach me how to read and write Marleyan?" He blinked at her, which made her panic and ramble, "I mean, it's still the dominant language of the world and I hear it is more of a modified version of Paradisian. I don't have all that much to do at home and the orphanage is more of a part time hobby I let myself indulge in, and I know you're busy-"
"I would be happy to. Take it easy," he smiles at her reassuringly. She lets out a breath in relief, her rambling completely uncalled for, but something about being alone with him at night, asking him for favours that involved spending more time with him made her uncomfortably nervous, their drunken night in the kitchen sometimes flashing before her eyes, making a heat pool in her stomach.
"Great, thank you. How do you want to do this?"
"We eat pretty early and there is plenty of time afterwards. We could start tomorrow after dinner maybe? We could just do it whenever you feel like it."
"That sounds nice," she lets out a grateful smile. There is silence again, and she looks at her paper blankly, all her previous drafts thrown in the fire when she couldn't even figure out a salutary greeting to the letter. This was really not her thing. Words were not her thing.
"Meanwhile, do you need help with your letter? No judgement," he raises his hands in the air, showing he meant no harm.
Her shoulders slump at her own hopelessness, as she ruefully accepts, "That would be nice too. Let me set up the fire tomorrow in return. I'm good at the physical stuff anyway."
"That you are." He rolls up his sleeves, and turns to her, one leg on the sofa to get a better view of her. "Let's see now. Dear Armin…"
Mikasa finds that she likes their nights together. It feels warm and comfortable. His patience had transcended even her initial lofty estimation. He takes the time to start from the basics, explaining how the Marleyan writing system worked and how theirs differed, breaking down the easiest methods of learning and how he had managed to master it in such a short time. He spoke in an even toned manner and laughed even if she groaned when he gave her a particularly difficult passage to decipher, bonking her on the head playfully if her attention drifted to a random noise nature had created outside their window.
It was endearing when he taught her. She felt safe and like she could be herself, no matter how stupid, clumsy or lazy. There was no pressure to be the intimidating Mikasa Ackerman, capable of making the blood chill of the toughest known to humanity. She could finally be a normal girl because behind Jean's tough, competitive exterior, he was a pretty normal guy who seemed to want a peaceful life like her at the end of the day.
He had confided in her about this on a particularly long night when he had to finish going through an impossibly long document for work the next day, in a hushed tone like he didn't want to jinx it; how he did not mind no matter how long the document is, because at least he knew that he would always come back to a home with warm food on the table without the fear of war wiping it away. Her chest warmed at the thought, admitting out loud that all she ever wanted was to be able to cook food for her family, tend to the garden and just live a life without ever knowing bloodshed.
She felt naked in that moment, conscious at voicing out such a simple wish considering all the crimes she had committed, all the blood she had shed. But when he smiled at her gently, and hesitantly patted her on her back, reminding her that they are in the same boat, she let herself lean into her thoughts, into his touch, feeling light and seen.
Life on quiet nights like those weren't bad at all, a far cry from all the quiet nights she had spent in her locked room, even though there was no one else in the house to come knocking at her door.
She eases into the idea of physical proximity as well. She would flinch initially when he would lean in to see her work or to explain to her what a particularly tricky combination of words meant. She would instinctively move away, trying to keep him at least half a foot away at all times. She had always been averse to human touch, not having had much exposure to it due to her unfortunate circumstances.
But being near him, feeling his heat radiate on to her, his shallow breaths acting like a soothing lullaby to her ears, let her get carried away from noticing any violation of her private space. She learned that she appreciated the positive reinforcement he sometimes gave her – a pat on her head or shoulder for a job well done. She felt like a child for enjoying such simple acts. It had the effect of making her blood rush to her cheeks. He never commented on it to make her recoil and re-think her actions.
She was coming to see his quirks and imperfections as well. He would curse out loud in frustration after he settles on the couch, ready with each of their stack of books and stationery neatly organised, when he realises that he had left his only mandatory reading material behind at the office. This would make her giggle and she would find that he instantly cooled down when she returned his calming gesture and patted him on his arm.
He would sometimes forget to pay their weekly electricity bill and would have to roam around in the dark, stubbing his toe against the furniture, feeling for where she had kept the firewood. She would inevitably have to come to his rescue, somehow being the brawn out of the two of them, helping him transport it into the fireplace using the moonlight as their guide, having to direct him even verbally to make sure he avoids crashing into furniture again.
Not to mention how annoyingly messy he could be, or how much he struggled in the mornings to just function. She discovers that the fire in her has not been lost when she wakes up to find a sleeping Jean sprawled across the sofa, his mouth open, his delicate books half on himself and half laying open on the floor with papers disorganised and flying around, already an hour late from the time he should have left the house. She is in half a mind then to dump water on him to rouse him awake. She tucks away such plots only for the sake of the papers.
But he is also adorably carefree when he is asleep and she doesn't have the heart to wake him up in any way except to gently stir him and make a quick breakfast to force him out the door, offering to him to spend the extra money and avail one of those new, expensive taxi services.
He, after all, does similar things for her when she falls asleep on the sofa while reading a particularly boring passage.
It's a vague memory which she remembers only from the intense feeling of warmth and comfort she had felt, not to mention a distinctly masculine smell that made her knees week, but it was a night when she had dared to fall asleep against him once, nuzzling him like it was the most natural thing in the world. He had stirred her probably to move her to her bedroom, but through the bleary state she was in, she remembers the prickly feeling of his stubble on her forehead, and the hardness of his chest her head was rested on and his strong arm with a gentle hold around her.
It was a night which she distinctly remembered because it was one of the only nights she had seen nothing while asleep – no dream, no nightmare, just a deep, peaceful slumber that replenished her fatigued mind and body. She reflexively moved away of course, as soon as she regained her consciousness and heard him whisper, "It's okay, you can go back to sleep", embarrassed that she let herself go like that. She rushed to her bedroom after, receding back to a state where she felt like she couldn't face him again, washing her face multiple times to cool down her raging body that seemed like it was in a trance of its own.
They don't spend all nights together though. Sometimes, she takes her leave solely because she thinks he must want some alone time instead of burdening him with her company.
He could be talkative when he wanted, which meant that he initiated majority of their conversations, the bulk of them taking place at the dining table or in their sweet little cocoon in front of the fire or in the soft lighting of the lamp. He somehow never initiates to leave for bed first, even though he should ideally be sleeping earlier due to his schedule. She has brought it up from time to time, but he just says, "I just love the night," and leaves it at that.
She checks in on him sometimes, being awfully quiet on the stairwell, to spy if he had fallen asleep. He tosses and turns, even in their narrow couch with his long legs jutting out of the edge, his disturbed features deep enough to have her worried.
Once, when she happened to find that he had gone to bed already, a cry had resonated from inside his room, one that sounded very similar to the one she emits. It was an eye opener for her. It was not only her that had never-ending nights with the darkness chasing them. It had taken her her all, not to barge in and take him in her arms, and whisper to him how he was okay, just as he had done for her many nights over.
Recently, after she pretended to go to bed, she is sure she hears him engaged in a hushed mumbling from his position at the window. She stands on her toes, trying to reposition herself to get a better view of what he is doing when she realises that that was where they had placed the telephone. It got her curiosity bubbling; he only did this on the days she left for bed early. It irked her. It felt like he had a private part of his life that he did not want to share with her. She was too used to sharing with him, so why was he hiding?
She would wait for him to tell her. She wanted to test how long he could go keeping a secret from her, how long he could bear to betray her. Moreover, she wanted to see how long the nonchalant act of hers would work, since she never let herself break her façade.
She is in a particularly sour mood when one of the children at the orphanage turned five years old and decided that now he should behave like the devil's spawn that he apparently was, splashing on puddles, forcing her to return home with her clothes sodden with mud and dirty water that was sure to have been contaminated with some animal excreta or the other. She barely wanted to eat dinner or hear about another dinner invitation Jean had gotten. She went to bed especially early in a mood that intimidated Jean and shut his rambling up easily.
When she comes out of her room, hoping to share in his company, a panacea for her bad moods, his secret conversation with the unknown caller riles her to an unprecedented extent, her hands balling into fists with the childish urge to stomp down and demand his attention and slam the receiver down after giving the mystery person an earful.
But she somehow gets lucky, as just as she takes the first step downstairs, she hears him raise his voice enough for her to hear the conversation for the very first time.
"I told you, I just can't…. no, you don't get it. I'm telling you, I'll do it at my own time and the time is not right, right now!" He sounds exasperated. Mikasa has half a mind to rescue him from whatever frustrations this other person was laying on him, not liking the sound of whoever was on the other side. "Can't you let it go? Trust me when I say things are running smoothly?... No, I don't need you to send anything… Mom, really! Mikasa cooks perfectly well for the both of us!"
She is caught off guard, as she inhales a sharp breath. She feels strange.
She slinks back into her room, realising she had intruded upon a private conversation. That night, her sleep is disturbed once again.
She waits for him expectantly at the table the next morning. Breakfast is piping hot when she hears his racing footsteps across their stairs.
"Mikasa!" He exclaims, surprised to see her.
"Sit," she motions towards his usual spot on the dining table, opposite her. She tries to look neutral but she knows she is probably coming off as cold.
"You made breakfast - thank you," he digs into his bacon and eggs ravenously.
She watches him like a hawk, before curtly asking, "Why don't we ever go see your mother?"
He pauses abruptly, his bacon hanging unsightly from his mouth before he uncomfortably chews and takes a large gulp. "Er, what do you-"
"You talk to her every other night. Why don't we go see her?" She cuts a perfect square out of her egg and daintily takes a bite, her back absolutely straight against the chair.
"You're quite the spy, aren't you, Mikasa," he lets out a chuckle, not looking up at her.
"Well?"
"You know why," he says brusquely.
She purses her lips. "Not really. No. Why?"
"Parents, they… have certain expectations, ideas about things."
"Elaborate." She folds her arms, with full concentration on him.
It was as if he felt her razor sharp gaze on him when he finally meets her eyes, holding his ground equally. He slumps quickly after though, as though he had already played out their conversation in his head and declared himself as the loser.
She takes the opportunity to take a guess at his evasion, "Are you embarrassed of me?"
His eyes widen, as he looks outraged at her suggestion, "Embarrassed of you? Never! No, it's the opposite! I don't want to put you in an uncomfortable position."
"Why would that happen?"
He clicks his tongue, pausing for a brief moment, steadying his breath, "We are married but.. we're not, right?"
"For all intents and purposes, we are," She argues.
She knows why he is hesitating. They had not stepped out of their house as a married couple because in their house as well, they had agreed they would not behave as a married couple. It was a condition of their marriage itself - they are live-in friends. It sounded quite ridiculous to her now, but she was the reason for this clunky arrangement.
Whether they were friends or family, or whatever they had decided for the sake of mental satisfaction, the prospect of being cut out of the opportunity of having a real family - a mother's love - hurt her deeply. She was not an ideal wife, and she should have thought of it before, but when the thought of a mother figure appearing in her life again drifted into her mind, it shined like the brightest sun. She wanted to experience it again, no matter what she and Jean were like, no matter how his mother really was like, whether or not she really was happy on their wedding day. She needed to be selfish in this matter.
So she softens her tone, pleading, realising this was her fault in the first place, "Jean, please can we? It's stupid and irresponsible if we are married and I've barely interacted with your mother…"
He nods, his lips upturning, "Okay, yeah, this weekend. But don't say I didn't warn you."
She draws the biggest smile she can manage. How had she not even considered this line of thought before?
Mikasa looks unusually nervous, tugging at her dress, smoothening her hair, as they bounce up and down in the carriage. Jean thinks she is unnecessarily fretting. There is no way any one can think she looks less than lovely. His mother would agree no doubt. He was just dreading her overdramatic positive reaction to her. Just thinking of it made him gloomy.
When Mikasa adjusts her sleeve for the hundredth time, Jean interrupts her as an attempt to assuage her, "You look great, Mikasa. You don't need to worry this much," he says with utmost sincerity.
She shoots him a deadly look instead, placing her hat on her head with a solid determination.
Sigh, he was always going to be dominated by the women in his life.
He takes to boredly looking outside the window, all his will working towards averting his gaze from a particularly ravishing Mikasa - his wife apparently, as unbelievable as it still was.
Just as expected, as soon as they put their suitcases down on the wooden floor of his modest home in Trost, his mother rushes downstairs, taking Mikasa's hands in her own, and then pulling her into a hug, completely ignoring Jean, her only son, exclaiming, "I can't believe I have such a beautiful daughter-in-law! I'm so sorry for my Jean-bo hiding you away! I could never understand my idiot son's thinking!"
He thinks he sees a tear run down both the older lady's cheek, and he just wants to hide away at the barrage of embarrassing comments that had left her mouth, groaning at the thought that this was very much just the beginning. His only solace was how purely chirpy Mikasa suddenly looked after being swallowed by the hug from the woman who was probably half her height, albeit understandably, a little confused.
"Can we at least come in?" He emphasises with annoyance, already done with the highly affectionate greeting his mother forced upon Mikasa.
"Jean-bo," his mother took a minute directing her attention towards him, stretching to pat him on his cheek, which he promptly dodged. "Come in, come in," she ushers them to the dining table.
"Thank you for having us, Mrs. Kirstein," Mikasa says politely, looking perfectly poised. She seemed to have made herself comfortable faster than he had expected. His mother was quite harmless. Just overbearing.
"Nonsense, dear. It is my pleasure! Do you know how many times I have told Jean-bo to bring you over? He just doesn't listen, the stubborn boy that he is."
"Mom…" he protests, rubbing the bridge of his nose, his blood pressure rising at how often he had to hear the unsavory nickname he was happy to have separated himself from.
"Did you? I was not aware." His heart breaks as Mikasa throws him under the bus.
It was going to be a long weekend.
His mother, seated beside her newly adored daughter-in-law, places her hand on hers on the table, with an apologetic look on her face, "Mikasa dear, I am so sorry for my son's behaviour. I am not sure how he has been treating you, but he was a difficult child, and with a lady like you – I am sure his behaviour has been lacking. It's completely my failure! I hope you will be patient with him!" His mother looks positively distraught.
His eye twitches, and he has half a mind to start up one of his shouting matches, Mikasa's still relatively pure smile being the only thing holding him back.
He still decides to defend himself, rather meekly, "That's really not how it is…"
"He's… learning," Mikasa adds quickly, still seated liked a poised angel with a straight back, her hands back at her lap, and a gentle smile.
Another shot to his heart. He doesn't think he will survive much longer.
"Well, we have all weekend to make up for lost opportunity," his mother says, enthused and he shudders, wondering what she has planned. "I've set up Jean's old room for the both of you. His bed is a bit small, so I took the liberty to shift the one from one of the other rooms and joined them."
He chokes on his water. Right, that was a problem he had not fully considered.
He glances at Mikasa but she sits there, unreactive, stiff as a board. Maybe things would work out and she would not be completely repulsed sleeping next to him. In their scouts' days, they did have to share a room or a forest floor from time to time. But that was almost always in the company of others. What was expected of them now was different. It was more intimate somehow and while his heart jumps out of his chest instinctively at the mere idea, he knows she does not share the sentiment. They would have to have an awkward conversation about this in a bit. He was not looking forward to it. It was tough for him to constantly suppress his eagerness at being around her, but he was devoted to his word of acting like friends.
"Mikasa dear, would you like to help me cook this afternoon after freshening up? There's this omelette recipe that is Jean's absolute favourite. He grew so fat and healthy all thanks to that when he was younger," she seems lost in her fondness for him and he cringes at the reminiscing, much happier not thinking about his plumper days.
He stands up, done with the conversation, "Freshening up, yes, that's a good idea. I'll take our bags up." He looks at Mikasa expectantly, who, much to his relief, is in agreement with him for once, nodding at his suggestion.
"I would love to, actually," Mikasa says pleasantly to his mother. "I have heard about this legendary omelette."
"That's great! Please, take your time then and do join whenever you would like. Please think of this as your home. I mean, it is, after all!"
Jean grabs their bags to take it upstairs, but Mikasa as usual, does not let him, taking her own from him wordlessly and following his lead.
His mother had indeed joined two beds together. He looks at Mikasa once, to gauge if she had any strong opinion on the matter, but when she just placed her bag in one corner of the room, looking around vaguely, he starts, "There's an easy solution thankfully. We can just separate the beds and it will be like we are back in the barracks again."
She blinks at him blankly and says aloofly, a contrast to the perfectly smiley girl she was being downstairs, "We can figure that out later. I'm not that fussed about it."
He presses his lips together, clicking his tongue in puzzlement. Did she mean it was a problem for later or that she did not care even if they slept together? He could feel his ears flush at the possibility of the latter but brushed it off just as easily, deducing from her nature that she probably meant the former.
That was the last time during the day he had had Mikasa to himself.
Much to his dismay, his mother had named her as her new victim to smother. He felt sorry for his poor wife for having to put up with it only because of her giving heart that made her marry him. It was a disproportionate punishment, but he hoped she would live. He admired Mikasa's grit as his mother made Mikasa do all the prep for lunch, and then made her taste a bunch of different concoctions she was preparing for what was intended to be a feast at lunch. Mikasa took it all in stride, even smiling through it. He would have to check on her mental state later. Maybe she was just an exceptional actress, or overly polite. That was something he could really learn from her.
Meanwhile, he was of course, forced to do all the cleaning, picking up the waste they had left in the kitchen, and basically just became their glorified errand boy as they had their fun doing the more exciting household tasks, if there ever were any.
When he tasted the omelette, for a minute, he abandoned his grumpy old man temperament and gobbled it up in one go, earning a musical laugh from Mikasa, who had apparently made her own version for him to try. Somehow, this was the best moment of his life, second only to actually getting married to this exceptional woman.
But his nightmare was only beginning.
When he returned after a gruelling laundry session, he was horrified to walk in on their conversation, both of them laughing on the sofa, "…he was under his blanket the whole time, holed up in his room, and I thought, maybe he was overdoing it? But I guess he was at the peak of his puberty at that time and it was probably natural for boys his age!"
"Mom!" He roars. He was not having her ruin his already poor image in front of Mikasa any further, his face red with embarrassment and anger.
"Jean," Mikasa turns to look at him, "We were just talking about you," she has a smile and a glint in her eye so unlike her. It reminds him of a devil who had just awoken from a very long slumber, and he is reminded that Mikasa had always been feared for a reason. He is thankful they did not have cameras in his childhood. He was sure his mother would unabashedly show Mikasa all his embarrassing moments in high definition.
"Come, sit, Jean," his mother invites him to the sofa next to their, seemingly blissfully unaware of his mortification, as was characteristic of her.
He heaves a deep sigh and plops down on the single seater sofa. "I hope you haven't been overdoing it with Mikasa? She probably needs a breather."
"I'm fine." She was betraying him so effortlessly.
"Don't worry. We're just having a little girly fun. I can't tell you how happy I am to finally have a daughter!" She places her hand on Mikasa's cheek and he winces, worried Mikasa might not like the intrusion of her private space. He was always extra careful before initiating anything like that, even if innocent or laudatory. But somehow, her smile widens instead.
Huh. Looks like the he was the problem all along.
"I was thinking I could take her around Trost tomorrow, show her the market maybe. My knee is pretty bad these days, but you," she frowns at Jean critically, "just leave her in that small little house all day, all lonely. A vibrant, young girl like her needs to be taken out, flaunted. Have I taught you nothing, son?"
How would he explain their unusual arrangement and precarious positions on the Island, without hurting her feelings? He knew his mother meant well and that to an outsider, he was quite a bad husband, and their relationship cold, but his hands were tied. It was not something he would want to share with her. He wanted her to believe the illusion of their perfect marriage. So, he played along, "Work has been pretty bad and her orphanage is demanding. We will go out eventually."
"Don't you keep getting invited to your officers' parties? Don't they have an invite for your wife as well?"
"She's…" He looks at Mikasa, biting his inner lip, "We're not that interested in those." Mikasa looks down at her hands, and there is a beat of a silence.
"Those parties can be quite stuffy, I hear. Anyway, it's getting late. Mikasa dear, let's go around Trost, and then the market tomorrow, just the two of us, and we can make a feast after it. There are some more recipes I would love to pass down to you," She gets up from her seat lethargically, wincing at the sudden pressure on her knee, before casually adding, "It's better to get such things out of the way before the children come into the picture." She beams brightly at a wide-eyed, taken aback Mikasa.
Now he really wanted to bury himself into a hole. This was exactly the kind of conversation he was hoping to avoid. Mama Kirstein never disappoints with her inappropriateness. "This is really not the time…" he supplies weakly, nervously glancing to a Mikasa who still seemed stuck in a trance. "Let's go upstairs," he tries rescuing her.
Mikasa shakes her head once, physically trying to get herself back to the real world. She surprises him by responding awfully calmly to his mother, "Children do keep things busy," before joining Jean's side, who can only gape at her in bewilderment.
When they are back in their room, he is grateful to see the bed, exhausted by the chores and the conversations he had to bear witness to that assassinated his character to shreds. But before he went into relaxation mode, he knew there were more pressing matters he had to tend to. He turns to Mikasa who was vacantly staring at the beds. She must be pondering over the same things as he is.
"Look, Mikasa, I'm really sorry. The conversation back there – that's exactly the kind of thing I wanted to avoid," he runs his hands through his hair in frustration. "It must have been uncomfortable for you. Just know, that I will speak to her. Don't think for a minute anything between us has to change or that there is any kind of pressure on you."
Her lack of a reaction increases his anxiousness. He rambles on, encouraging her to say something, "I'll sort out the beds too, and sneak you into the next room instead or make up some excuse and take the couch. You don't even have to go to market and all that nonsense tomorrow-"
"It's okay, Jean." She finally turns to him, and he sees her lips trembling and her eyes, glassy.
That's just great. Why was did his mother have to be so imperceptive? He panics, wondering what he could do to make her feel better.
He doesn't have time to think though, the air leaving his lungs as she launches herself at him, arms around his neck. "It's really all okay," she whispers, and that has him shaking and his body heating up at an unprecedented rate, as he feels her flush against his. His arms wrap around her automatically, almost needily, and it feels like he is mimicking her. The way she holds him feels unlike the way she ever has before. A warm and fuzzy feeling courses through his insides, as she buries her face deeper into his chest, and he feels a patch of dampness spread across his shirt.
He stutters out, not understanding what he had done to deserve this reward, "Is… everything okay? You seem…" he doesn't manage to finish. She just feels different. The fragrance of her hair enters his nose and has him dizzy, holding her protectively.
"I'm just really grateful. I've been so stupid for not taking the implication of our… arrangement seriously enough. This is all I've ever wanted. Thank you for sharing it with me," She buries into him with more force, and he thinks she is embarrassed for voicing out something so heartfelt and uncharacteristic of her. He smirks, patting her hair in slow motions, until she pulls back. He misses her warmth immediately, as he sees tell-tale signs of her tearing up again.
"Were you crying?"
"It's not the usual," she has her hands behind her back, and an unadulterated smile that is reflected in the corner of her eyes. He thinks it's the most breath-taking picture he has seen in a while. He can't stop staring at her. "I think, I might like this."
He snorts out of habit, "What, not sick of my mother yet?"
"Far from it. Do you think we could maybe extend our stay here?" She adds unsurely, "You don't have to stay on if you don't want to."
So that's what it was.
She had taken to having a mother figure back in her life. It's endearing that she is able to accept his mother so easily, to view her as family.
Except, it also hurt to know that he has not been able to make her feel similarly about him. It was considerate and cute of her to want to stay on, but it stung equally to find that she was fine with having him out of the picture.
He pretended to carefully consider her request, even though he could obviously never say no to her, especially when she was asking him so sincerely, so nicely, like a child asking their parent to read them a story.
"Yeah, I think my mother will be more than happy. She seems to love you, as expected. I'll tell her tomorrow." He then clears his throat and casually adds, "It will definitely be easier for me to commute to Stohess from here. I can wake up later too."
She nods enthusiastically at her wish being granted. "Thank you."
A point for him.
He was really blessed for having someone who was so happy with the smallest of pleasures. It made him feel big, with the way she showed her appreciation for things that were no trouble at all for him.
He feels a yawn come on, which reminds him of a dilemma he did not want to broach. "About the beds then. Let's shift them for today?"
She nods and is already at the foot of one bed, waiting for him to grab the other side. He is crestfallen, the tiny, lingering hope that shone, extinguished when she so readily started moving the bed.
He takes the other edge of the bed with lead feet and helps her increase the distance between them again.