Chapter 6
Jean pokes his head out from the tunnel into the outside world. For the first time in two and a half days, he takes a breath of fresh, open air. There's planks of wood and glass shards scattered around him. A smooshed mattress lies centimeters in front of him. Untouched houses stand all around their pile of rubble like silent sentries.
There's no trace of the others. They had probably assumed Jean and Marian were dead and left. (That's the only possibility Jean will accept. The only one. They're not dead.)
There's no sign of any titans, but it's doubtful Sasha and Connie could kill all four titans on their own, not while protecting the farmhands. They'd most likely gathered who they could and retreated. It's what Jean would've done.
The world they live in doesn't allow for hope, and if he'd seen a house fall on top of one of his comrades, he wouldn't have risked going back for them. Not when they were almost certainly dead.
They are on their own, and somewhere in the skeletal remains of Rossen, titans lurk. What's out there?" Marian rasps from the opposite end of the tunnel.
"Nothing."
Jean doesn't have to turn around. He can feel the eye roll.
"Then can we go?"
"Yeah," he says after a final sweep of the area. "Pass me my gear first."
Jean pulls himself completely out of the tunnel, staying low and quiet. His foot aches at the movement, but he forces himself to stay kneeling. He can respond quicker if his feet are already beneath him.
"Here," Marian says with a grunt. He grabs his sheaths, hilts, and engines, then pulls the gear on. It's still broken. There hadn't been enough light or time for him to try and fix it yet. Still, just having it strapped on makes Jean feel better. Even if the mechanics are broken, the swords themselves are better than nothing.
"Alright. Let's get going."
His only response is a shuffle.
"We should go while there's still daylight."
Nothing.
"We need to go, Marian," Jean says as he sticks his head back into the tunnel. All he can see is Marian's mud-caked knees. Her hands tremble on top of them.
"Marian?" His voice goes soft like it does when Buckwald gets spooked.
"Will you talk to me?" she asks in a voice even smaller than his. Jean stares, confused. Why would she want him to talk—oh.
The tunnel had collapsed on her only moments before. Of course, she's scared to crawl through it again.
"When we get back, the first thing I'm going to do is soak in a tub for hours. With a huge ham sandwich in one hand and an apple pie in the other," Jean says while he watches the surrounding rooftops for signs of movement. Rapid breaths and thumps let him know Marian is moving.
"And then I'm going to find all the blankets in HQ and sleep in front of a fire until morning. When I wake up, I'll ask Mikasa and Eren to make his mom's pancakes, and the little shit won't complain because everyone probably thinks I'm dead right now."
"Who's the little shit? Mikasa or Eren?" Marian's voice quavers. She's a little more than halfway through.
"Eren. He's a reckless idiot. Never knows when to quit."
There's a thump as Marian pulls herself forward, then stops again. She stares at her hands and breathes so heavily dirt flies away with each exhale.
"I thought trying again was what we were supposed to do."
"Yeah, but there's got to be some forethought involved in the tries. He just leaps." There's another thump, and Marian is in reaching distance. Jean offers her his hand.
"I can pull you out," he says, overtly cautious after last night, but she grabs him before the words are out. She slides out of the tunnel with a squeak, then takes in their surroundings with wide eyes.
"We should look for supplies in one of the houses," Jean says with a gesture towards a sturdy looking two story at the end of the street. "The higher vantage point might help us find some horses."
"Klein horses aren't dumb, Jean. If we're going to find horses, they're not going to be in Rossen."
He sighs but nods. It's wishful thinking, but it would be so much easier if they could find horses.
"Alright, let's go."
Together, they walk through the rubble towards their next step.
Marian and Jean sit on a dusty couch with a jar of pickles between them. They'd made it to the two-story house two hours earlier and had promptly raided it for food and winter clothes. Jean had found a thick black turtleneck that he'd pulled over his button up. He'd also pulled on as many pairs of socks as he could. Marian snatched a bulky sweater that barely fit under her jacket and a scarf made of patches of different patterned fabrics. There's red polka dots and yellow and green stripes, a weird oval shape that might be birds.
"There's got to be a better scarf, Marian," Jean says between pickle munches. He'd never cared for pickles, but these were the best thing he'd eaten. Ever.
"I like it. It's endearing." Marian holds a sock and scissors. They hadn't been able to find gloves, and after digging in cold dirt for two and a half days, both agreed that sock gloves were better than no gloves.
"It's a walking target. It literally screams 'come eat me!'"
Marian spares him a look that could sour milk but focuses on cutting perfectly spaced holes.
"So, what's the plan?"
"Well," Jean says after another monstrous bite of pickle, "we should fill that bag you found with whatever else is in the pantry. See if we can find something to hold water. Maybe a lighter. It's late, so I vote we wait to head out until morning. I'd rather run from titans when there's enough light to see them."
"Are we going to go towards the Scouts?" Marian says, reaching for the pickle she'd left on the lid while admiring the freshly made glove on her other hand.
"I think that's best. That's where the others would've gone. Once we get there, we'll escort all of you back home."
"You think the others made it back?" she asks. Her eyes stay firmly on the pickle. Jean swallows before answering. They had to have gotten back. There was no other option. Quiet and looming, heavy as falling stone—that would be the Scouts without Sasha and Connie.
"I think they regrouped and retreated. It wouldn't be worth the risk, trying to kill four titans while protecting all the civilians and horses. Better to run."
Marian nods. Wordlessly, she reaches for Jean's hand and starts measuring where the finger-holes should go in the socks. Her hands are calloused from farm-work, his from handling swords. He watches her small fingers measure and snip, wondering how something so dainty could be as toughened as his own digits.
"That thing looks worse up close." He nods to the color-vomit scarf. Her lips twitch, but all she does is shrug. It's then he sees the shadow falling over her eyes.
Jean has people he's worried about. He hadn't stopped to think about the people Marian may have lost.
"Are you close to the other farmhands?" A tiny wince lets him know he'd found the problem.
"Most of them live on the ranch. Not in our house or anything—my daddy would never allow that—but on the property. Some of them have worked with us for decades. I grew up with them."
"And Pierce?" Jean mumbles around the pickle chunks. It's been two and a half days. Two and a half days full of fear and pain. Somehow, the thought of Pierce is still enough to make his eyes roll.
"He's not that bad." Marian's grin is soft. Fond.
"He told me I might as well ride side saddle with how weak my knees are."
"He's not usually that bad."
"Sure."
"He isn't. You just made him...uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable," Jean says blankly. Marian's chestnut gaze meets his hazel. She'd found a brush, and her hair hung in loose waves around freckled cheeks.
"Jealous," she clarifies.
"Jealous!" Jean chokes on his pickle. Marian lets him take his hands back as he coughs and sputters.
"Look, Pierce is the best rider we have. He's one of the strongest farmhands, and he's the guy everyone goes to when there's a problem. He's Daddy's favorite. So, when you, Sasha, and Connie ride in looking like you were born on saddles, decked out in Scout cloaks with swords strapped to you, looking like the most competent people in the world, it kind of displaced him. Pierce isn't used to people being better than him at anything."
There's a lot Jean wants to say, but the most important thing is;
"I can't believe you think Connie is competent."
"Connie didn't spend the last few days surrounded by dirt and eating worms," Marian says with a smirk.
"We agreed not to talk about that!"
"I agreed not to tell anyone else, not that I would never mention it again."
"Same thing!"
"It is absolutely not the same thing!"
Jean glares at her. The sight makes her grin grow.
She's right. Technically. That didn't mean Jean had to be happy about it. With a sigh, he reaches for another pickle.
"I don't even like pickles," he says around another bite. Marian laughs and reaches for Jean's other hand. She tugs the finished sock gloves over it. With surprisingly warm fingers, she smooths the fabric across his palm.
"Fits?" she asks. The heat of her fingers leaves sparks against his skin. Jean swallows thickly, then nods.
"Yeah. Thank you."
Marian adjusts the edge of the glove wrapped around his pinkie. Her eyes flick to his, and the last rays of light shining through the window hit them and turn them into a blaze of chestnut fire.
"I never said thank you. For saving me."
"You don't have to thank me," Jean says, blushing because his voice is thick, and her hand still holds his.
"I never would've gotten out on my own, Jean. From the horses or the house. So, thank you."
Her eyes hold his, and it's like they're threaded together. His stomach flutters, and it has nothing to do with the number of pickles he's eaten. The thread is tightened, and they find themselves drawn together. Marian's eyes flutter closed, cutting off the fire the setting sun had sent.
But the setting sun glints off something else. In the window behind the couch, the last rays of sun glitter against falling snow.
"Oh no," Jean says softly. Marian starts and follows his gaze. Both of their shoulders slump at the sight of the heavy snow raining from the sky.
"It's gonna be a long walk home," she says. They watch as the setting sun fades to periwinkle twilight, then night. Marian stands. Her and Jean are sitting so close, their knees bump, but she doesn't pause.
"I'm going to look for more winter gear, then sleep in that little bedroom. You're in charge of the pantry," Marian says before disappearing up the creaking stairs. It isn't until her footsteps fade away that Jean thinks to stand and do what he was told.
He stuffs canned beans and corn into the canvas bag they'd found. He finds a canteen on the pantry's floor. He cleans it as best as he can and then stuffs it with freshly fallen snow. His new sock gloves keep his hands from aching with cold.
Then Jean finds himself on the couch and fiddling with his broken ODM gear. He waits for dawn alone.
