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Dirty socks.
All it was was an argument about dirty socks.
Jean has no idea how it even spiraled into this.
He’s about an arm’s length away from Pieck now, standing in the bedroom as their chests heave in the aftermath of raised voices and accusations. They’ve reached a stalemate, Jean thinks, or perhaps they’d just grown tired of saying things that neither of them mean: dirty socks turned into dirty imputations, complaints about chores turned into endless verses of “I don’t think I matter enough to you.”
They’ve had their fair share of fights throughout their relationship—arguably a healthy amount for the average couple.
They’ve never had one quite like this.
Dirty socks.
All of it had started because of dirty socks.
Jesus.
He’s about to say something when Pieck storms towards the bed, hastily grabbing a pillow and two of their blankets in a fit of frustration. She’s crying now, and when Jean realizes that he had done that—that those tears are there because of him—he feels infinitely worse.
“I—what are you doing?” He asks.
“I’m sleeping on the couch,” Pieck mumbles, words laced with venom. “I can’t be around you right now.”
“We said—” He stutters. “We said we’d never go to bed angry. We said we wouldn’t be that couple.”
“Well, I wanna go to bed, and I’m angry,” Pieck scoffs. She’s avoiding eye contact now, tears streaming down her face as she aimlessly pats around the bed. “Where the hell is my phone—”
“Pieck, come on. Don't be like this.”
“I can’t be around you right now,” she says again. “God, I can’t even look at you right now, Jean, I—”
“I know, I know, I just—can’t we talk this out a little more?” He asks. He sounds panicked now, he realizes. Perhaps that’s because he is.
“We’ve been ‘talking it out ’ for the last two hours, Jean. This isn't going anywhere.”
“It doesn't have to go anywhere,” he argues, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And I’m not talking about the socks anymore, or any of the other stuff. I’m—I just—”
There’s a first time for everything, he supposes; perhaps he was too naive to think that he and Pieck could grow old together without one of them ever having to sleep on the couch. Jean would be lying, of course, if he said he’d never entertained the thought of doing so. He’s sure Pieck has thought about it at some point in their relationship, too.
The difference is that before tonight, neither of them had actually done it.
“You don't have to take the couch,” he pleads. “We can just—I don’t know, put a bunch of the pillows in between us or something, if you don’t wanna—”
“Jean.” She says, eyes finally meeting his. “I’m taking. The couch.”
It scares him when he hears it: the certainty in her voice, the malice between the syllables. Suddenly his mind wanders towards places he doesn’t want it to: images of Pieck storming out of the apartment with a suitcase. Pieck coming back a week later with a stack of divorce papers. Jean begging her to stay, and Pieck insisting she doesn’t want to.
And it scares him.
It scares him.
“I—I don’t want to be angry anymore.” Jean confesses.
“Well, I am.”
“I just—listen. I’ll do it. I’ll take the couch.”
“No,” she snaps. “You don’t get to have this. You don't get to say shitty things to me, and then have the last say at the same time. I want the couch. I want to sleep there. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not telling you what to do.”
“Jean, you are quite literally telling me what to do.”
He sighs.
There’s no winning this, he thinks.
Pieck Finger-Kirschtein is a woman who knows what she wants.
And tonight, Jean is sure: she wants that damn couch. She knows it.
But he can't not try.
He has to at least try.
“It has that dent,” Jean reminds her, his voice low now, shoulders slouching in defeat. “You'll hurt your back.”
“I’ll live.” Pieck rolls her eyes.
“And the coffee table’s dusty,” he sputters. “I haven't wiped down the surface yet, or the vases in the living room and the plant pots, and I don’t want you to get—if it's too dusty out there, your allergies are gonna act up again, and we're out of Benadryl, and I—”
He takes a breath before he continues.
“I’m sorry,” Jean finally says, and he means it. “I’m sorry for what I said, for everything I said, and I’m sorry about how I said it. I just—just please let me take the couch,” he begs. “You’re gonna hurt your back sleeping out there and it’s cold, and your allergies—your allergies are gonna— ”
Pieck falls silent.
She’s still angry, he can tell, but Jean sees her expression shift from frustration, to annoyance, and now, realization. He knows that Pieck knows he’s right, but at this point in the argument, he no longer cares that he is; he just wants her to sleep comfortably tonight.
He just wants her to be okay.
“Fine,” she concedes, throwing the pillows back onto the bed. She doesn’t say another word—just marches past him to turn off the lights before hiding under the blankets and leaving him in the dark.
“Good night, Pieck,” he mumbles sadly.
She doesn’t say it back.
———
The living room doesn’t feel like theirs.
The pastel blue walls and the white fiberglass ceiling, the photo frames and little trinkets that surround the corners of their tiny apartment—they’ve lived here for almost a year now, and suddenly, because he's alone, none of it feels like theirs.
His blanket is flimsy: just a spare one he'd found in the guestroom wardrobe, nowhere near as comfortable as the quilted ones that he and Pieck share in their bedroom together. The cold starts to creep in, and with it, the realization of all the things he'd done tonight, all the awful things he'd said:
He'd raised his voice more than once, more times than he'd like. He'd said terrible things about her that he didn’t mean, and none of them were even close to fair. Pieck, at some point, had done the same, although he’s unsure now if she’d actually meant any of it—he can only hope that she hadn’t.
It's getting colder, and by the time he's stopped tossing and turning, Jean realizes he doesn't even want any of those damn quilted blankets. He just wants her.
Dirty socks.
If he loses his marriage over a stupid argument about dirty socks, he’s never going to forgive himself.
He doesn't know how he manages to fall asleep, but by some miracle, he does.
———
“Scoot over.”
“I—huh?”
“I said scoot over, please.”
Jean slowly blinks his eyes open, just enough to make out a tiny figure looming over him in the dark. He’s unsure of what time it is or what’s even going on: all he knows is that his back hurts, and that somehow, he’d fallen asleep somewhere he wasn’t supposed to.
“Scoot over, please,” the voice says again, soft and barely a whisper.
“S’going on?”
“Jean, if this was a break-in, you’d be dead by now.”
Ah.
That voice.
He knows that voice.
Under the faint glow of the moonlight, he finally sees her: that familiar mop of messy hair, the soft outlines of her silhouette. She’s wearing one of his shirts, and he wonders why he hadn’t noticed it earlier—a worn-out college jersey with his last name on the back, the fabric wrapped around her perfectly despite the shirt being three sizes bigger than she is.
She’s beautiful.
“Hi,” Jean mumbles sleepily, stretching his legs out and clearing his throat. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Pieck hums. She kneels down towards the floor so she faces him, a tiny hand cupping his cheek. “Now scoot over, please.”
She doesn’t need to say it twice.
Jean moves, Pieck carefully slotting herself in whatever space that's left on their leatherette couch. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, Jean thinks, but the more tonight’s events come back to him, the more he relishes the feeling of her body pressed against his—bare toes on his calves, her face burrowed in the crook of his neck.
“I’m still mad at you,” Pieck mumbles, breath hitching.
“I know.”
“I don’t like it when you raise your voice at me like that.”
“I know,” Jean says again. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“And don’t you ever suggest ‘putting pillows in the middle of the bed’ again. That was stupid.”
“You’re the one who wanted to take the couch.”
“Yeah, well,” Pieck sighs. “I was stupid.”
Jean chuckles.
He kisses her on the forehead, soft and tender, his fingers trailing along her scalp in just the way that she likes. Absent-mindedly, he spots the analog clock on the wall across from them, the glass surface glistening against the city lights from their apartment window: 3:45, it says.
It's only been a few hours now, since Pieck had threatened to storm out of their bedroom; they aren’t fully okay yet, and Jean knows there are things from tonight that they still need to talk about.
But having her in his arms now, in this moment—everything else that happened earlier feels like a lifetime ago.
“Jean?” she says, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Hm?”
“I’m sorry too,” she says. “I think—I think I said a lot of things that I didn’t mean.”
“So did I.”
“I didn’t mean them. Did you mean yours?”
“No,” Jean sighs. It hurts him that she'd even think that, but he can't exactly blame her for it—that’s his fault. “Fuck no, Pieck. Of course not. It was stupid and childish and just—really fucked up and I shouldn’t have said any of it.”
“Mm-hmm,” she nods. “I shouldn't have said any of the things that I said, either.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They lie in silence for a while, her in his arms and her breaths soft against his skin. He wants to talk about this more, but the ticking of their analog almost sounds like a lullaby, and the rise and fall of Pieck's chest, rhythmic against his, nearly cradles him to sleep—his eyes are about to droop closed when she speaks again.
“I’m sorry about the socks, too,” she says.
“Hm?”
“I'm sorry,” she says again, hands playing with his hair. ”About the socks.”
“M’not mad about that anymore,” Jean mumbles sleepily. “You can leave ten more pairs on the floor if you want. You can leave twenty.”
“No, see, that's not fair,” Pieck huffs, sitting up so quickly she almost falls off the couch. “I know you don't like it when I leave them lying around. I shouldn't have made fun of you for caring about that.”
It takes him aback.
Jean has always been particular about tidiness. Pieck has never been, and she probably never will be—it's always been a point of contention in their relationship.
This is the first time she's acknowledged it in all the years that they've been together.
“I—thank you,” Jean says, chest suddenly filled with warmth: it's enough that he drags her back onto the couch with him, holding her tighter as he presses tiny kisses all over her forehead—quick and sweet, each one more tender than the last.
“Woah,” Pieck giggles. “Slow down, cowboy.”
“No, it's just—that really does mean a lot to me, Pieck. That you acknowledged that.” He says. “Thank you.”
“I'm glad, then,” she smiles.
“But I shouldn't have blown up over it,” he goes on, settling down now. “They're just socks.”
“I mean, yeah, you shouldn't have blown up, but those things matter to you, you know? I should’ve been more considerate about that.”
“We’ll work around it,” Jean promises. “We always do.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I guess I just—” he starts, slow and careful. “I know I can get privy about which things go where.”
“You do.” Pieck chuckles.
“But maybe—maybe you're right that I need to loosen up about that a little bit.”
“Maybe. We can always compromise, too.”
“Yeah. I guess the socks don't always have to be in the right hamper,” Jean proposes. “You can chuck them in a different hamper, or the one in the bathroom, but just…maybe not on the floor?”
“Yeah,” Pieck nods. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“I’ll do better, too.”
They pause for a moment, both of them looking into each other's eyes, and Jean is filled with nothing but patience, and kindness, and understanding.
The spell is only broken when Pieck starts giggling.
“What's so funny?” He smiles.
She doesn't respond—only keeps laughing that beautiful, perfect laugh of hers, and before Jean knows it, he's laughing along, too: light chuckles turning into heavy chortles, both of them loud and messy and struggling to breathe.
A part of him is worried they wake up the neighbors.
A larger part of him doesn't care.
“This is stupid,” Pieck says in between laughs. “This is so stupid, Jean. This is all this conversation could have been.”
“I know! ” Jean exclaims, throwing his hands into the air. “God, we literally didn’t need to go through all of that. Why did we do that!?”
“Because we’re stupid,” Pieck giggles.
“I was worried you were gonna move out and ask for a divorce.”
“Jean, I’m not going to divorce you over a pair of Baby Yoda socks.”
“What if they were Jar Jar Binks socks?”
“I'll start packing my bags, then,” she teases.
It's her turn to kiss him now, gently grabbing him by the collar as she peppers him with kisses: his cheeks and the tip of his nose, his forehead and the base of his neck, the underside of his chin.
“Listen to me,” Pieck says, tilting his chin up so their eyes meet in the dark. “I love you, okay? You’re an idiot, but I love you.”
“I love you too,” Jean whimpers.
“And this is going to happen again, because we're married.” Pieck goes on, her voice soft but stern. “We're going to fight about little things, and big things, and everything in between. We're going to fight about things that matter, and things that aren't even worth fighting over about.”
“Like Baby Yoda socks?” Jean chuckles.
“Like Baby Yoda socks,” Pieck nods, smiling as she cards through his hair. “But we're going to get through it each time, and we're going to keep growing together after. Because I love you, Jean Kirschtein. I love you and I will always, always choose you.”
“I'll always choose you, too.”
“Mm-hm. Because I'm your little Pieckachu.”
“You're ruining the moment,” Jean laughs, hugging her tighter. “You're so ridiculous. I love you.”
She presses her lips against his once more, and it's all he can do to not melt under her touch, her words flooding him with nothing but love, and devotion, and gratitude.
“Should we move back to the bedroom?” he asks, nuzzling his nose on the top of her head.
“Too lazy,” Pieck yawns, holding onto him tighter. “Already comfy here. Don’t want bed. Just want you.”
“Yeah,” Jean chuckles. “Same.”
“We’re going to regret sleeping here when we wake up in the morning, aren’t we?”
“Mm-hmm. We are.”
Marriage isn't easy—Jean knows this. They both do.
But there isn't anyone else in the world he'd ever want to do this with. If he could choose her all over again, he will.
He'll choose her a million times over and more.
Dirty socks.
Their marriage has grown even stronger now because of dirty socks.
