Work Text:
The plane ride had felt like forever. The drive, though shorter, felt even longer. Marsch had never been very patient, but this was a ridiculous wait, even for him.
Marsch had arranged everything. Milner would call into Leeds once a month to do a mental health check. He'd met Daniel Farke, the new manager of Leeds, and the two had met for coffee and swapped phone numbers. He'd put up his little cottage in Leeds for sale, and he'd said his goodbyes to the neighbors. It wasn't so hard; most of his neighbors were happy to see him go.
Now he sat in the back seat of a taxi, holding Monique's cat carrier on his lap. The tortoiseshell cat meowed in protest as the taxi went over a speedbump, sticking her paw out of the cage. Marsch held the paw as if he was holding his best friend's hand.
His best friend was actually the whole reason he'd moved to France. When Vieira got fired from Crystal Palace, he moved in with Marsch, who'd been fired a month earlier. They lived together in relative peace, minus the regular doses of shenanigans they got themselves into.
But then Vieira had been called to France to coach in Strasbourg, and was forced to leave England. Marsch had stayed behind to look after the Leeds players, but he missed Vieira so badly that he eventually gave in and packed up his stuff.
Finally, the taxi stopped in front of the new house. It was almost exactly like their old cottage in Yorkshire, so much that Marsch briefly thought he’d accidentally traveled in a full circle. Once he convinced himself that he hadn’t done the idiocy of the day, he took up the suitcases and Monique’s cat carrier, ran up the driveway, and knocked on the door four times.
There was no answer. Marsch shrugged, dug out a power screwdriver from his briefcase, and took the door off its hinges. The door fell to the ground with a loud crash, splintering into countless pieces.
“Oops.” Marsch pulled a glass shard out of his shoe sole, stepping away from the mess. “Probably should have checked to make sure it wasn’t fragile. Why didn't I use the crowbar instead?"
“Jesse Allen Marsch.”
Where the door had previously stood, there stood Vieira. He was in his pajamas, his chin was half-shaved and half-full of shaving cream, and he smiled at Marsch like he’d just won the lottery.
“Hey, Jesse.”
“Hey, Patrick.”
“Welcome home, mon ami .”
“Thanks, man ami.”
“Oh, by the way, you’re paying for the door.”