Work Text:
Waking up to the blare of his alarm didn’t get any easier at the frigid, dark hour of 5am on the days of his shifts. That part never changed, even when so much else had. The smell of coffee already permeating the house- yes, house- made it easier to not turn off his alarm with the force to crack the plastic casing at least. A fancy coffee maker with a timer had been a “gift” to him, but they all benefitted in a myriad of ways. The most obvious being good quality coffee before work, but the more subtle being that Jean was much perkier for morning briefings.
Knowing that coffee and inevitably some sort of “healthy and empowering” breakfast (according to Harry) would be waiting for him after his run, Jean rolled out of bed to throw on some sweats. As he moved around, the novelty of the quiet was still no lost on him. No radio from neighbors, late-night-turned-early-morning fights through paper thin walls, no loud lorries rumbling by on the street… The townhouse was more than they’d really needed, but since Trant had been selling… Well, it still wouldn’t have meant anything if their clear rate hadn’t hit and isolary high and merited C wing collectively higher salaries. Still, three men together could (shockingly) afford the mortgage with at least a little comfort. Was that mostly due to Trant tanking the property value for them in exchange for “horseback riding lessons a few times a month and maybe a night out to dinner” with Jean?
Maybe. But none of them were complaining, especially when Trant “needed to move closer to Mikael’s specialty school”. His new property was only about four blocks closer.
Jean caught his own eyes in the mirror, briefly, as he took his meds. Still grey, still tired looking. A few years older, but objectively less awful looking. Somehow. Some-fucking-how. He still didn’t know. Or didn’t want to acknowledge, more like. His therapist had been saying that for the last year. He pulled on his trainers, already hearing the telltale thumps of Harry moving around in the other bedroom. It wasn’t Jean’s fault that he still flinched at the sound. Over a year living in the same space. Three years of sobriety for Harry. 1244 days since Martinise. Yeah, Harry still smoked, but not nearly as much as Jean. Still- every thump, thud, or barely heard timbre of Harry’s voice through the thick, high-end drywall was enough to trigger Jean’s fight or flight still. No matter how many times his therapist asserted that it was a perfectly normal response to the trauma of the years before. No matter how much it felt like the other shoe was already in mid-drop. Things continued to move forward, in more and more predictable, comfortable patterns.
Jean headed into the hall and waited. Inevitably, The Voices would let Harry know that he was waiting. Shitkid was still Shitkid, even on meds and therapy of his own. Maybe it was the Pale, or the drink, but Jean and Kim had grown accustomed to their other 24 “roommates”. Harry had insisted on making art pieces of each of them at some point during his therapy journey so they all had a pretty decent idea about them. Harry poked his head out with a smile “I’ll make breakfast- leg is acting up. Have a good run!” He retreated into the room, not expecting more than a cursory grunt from Jean- who stopped him with a hand on the door.
“If it’s bugging you, take your meds. It’s gonna be a hell of a day.” His voice was still gruff and husky from sleep, but his brain was still sharp enough to remember that they’d be out canvassing for a case today.
“Good call, Vic!” Harry shot him a grin and some finger guns, earning him an eye roll and groan from Jean- who gave him a much less polite finger gesture of his own as he headed down the stairs, the air filled with Harry’s warm chuckle.
He locked the door behind him, looking up at their narrow, brick townhouse. Townhome. Whatever. It was all so sickeningly domestic. Even if it wasn’t traditional by any means. Three cops living together in the nice part of town. It even had a garage for the Kineema, for Dei’s sake! The whole thing felt like some ridiculous pantomime most days. Even if they’d all been effectively living together for most of the year before the townhouse. Even if they shared space with a comfort that no other humans had even come close to in their lives. Even if it had saved Jean’s life on more than one occasion. Even if it had been so damn helpful when Kim had caught a stray bullet to the side on a case and Harry and Jean could take turns caring for him. Even if all those things made it as much of a domestic home as any other traditional dynamic. Still pissed him off and made him feel like a fraud sometimes. Like he was doing something wrong.
His trainers hit the pavement in long, even strides. The roads out here didn’t have many potholes, if any. There were no drugged out vagrants in heaps on the sidewalk or tottering around. No threat to the easy rhythm he set for himself. Even if the townhouse brought him immense guilt- he couldn’t say that he didn’t love it. Three bedrooms (even if one or more of them sat vacant each night), a home office, AND a combination gym-art studio-model building space. Harry’s art on the walls (both the art he made, and art he found, bought, or traded for with his many hobby clubs he now frequented), RCM photos, their awards, photos of MCs and aerostatics all made it feel more like some odd bachelor cave- what a joke. “Bachelor cave”.
Confirmed bachelors maybe.
By the time he’d made it home, he was dripping with sweat despite the light, freezing mist of the city. It was just shy of 6, and a shower was in order- one with hot water that never seemed to run out, and no roaches in the tub. A mug of coffee set on the banister, one of the mugs Harry had made in ceramics. It may or may not have been labeled as Jean’s since the glaze had come out of the kiln the color of his eyes.
Harry hadn’t led with that when he brought it to the precinct and placed it proudly on Jean’s desk. Jean had spoken first, noting “Ok shitkid, the last batch was fucked, but…” he’d let out a mild whistle. “How’d you even manage this color? It’s actually… nice.” And then he was instantly met with snickers from Harry, and Kim covering his mouth in the way he did when he didn’t want to let on that he was laughing. When Harry then told him that anyone who’d seen it instantly compared it to his eyes, Jean couldn’t help but splutter out a half-biting comment about “you told me you have no control over the glaze anyways.” Before shoving it back into Harry’s hands and storming off.
Maybe he had been scarlet about it at the time and Mack had made some obnoxious joke about it later that day- but that was ages ago now, and the mug fit against Jean’s palm like it was made to sit there. Because it was.
Harry and Kim were both up now, sitting in the kitchen, the radio speaking the weather forecast softly. It was going to be rainy today, but Jean could’ve guessed that. Sipping his coffee, he headed up to shower.
Clean, uniformed, and as ready for the day as he was going to get, he returned to the kitchen. The radio was now playing a quiet jazz that Harry had grown to like. Breakfast was ready and waiting for him. Harry was looking over some case notes- dumbass disco mutton chops trimmed, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. He’d been growing it out- and it looked nice. He put product in it and everything. He was wearing a paisley collared shirt with a jacket that somehow matched in color, but both pieces were clean, well maintained, tailored by Kim, and smelled like oranges and clove. He had muscles now- real ones. His face wasn’t ruddy or awful looking, it was soft and kind and, while still scarred and older… he looked good. Approachable. Like the kind of man you’d believe was brilliant and kind and funny and odd. Kim was working on a crossword, still his same polished self. A newer aerostatic jacket, this one thicker and more waterproof. His hair was getting thinner by the day, but all in all he looked almost the same as before, just with more smile lines at the edges of his eyes. They still didn’t need to leave for the office for another 15 minutes- and even then, they’d be about five minutes early to clock in. The coffee Harry made for him- in the mug he’d made for him- was sweet and creamy. The first taps of rain on the roof were soothing.
This was not a new feeling. This safety was no longer new or unfamiliar. The men at the table with him weren’t adversaries or strangers or threats, just waiting to tear him down, kick him out, and ruin his life. He trusts them. Deeply and implicitly. And they’ve earned that trust- and trust him back.
His therapist said he needed to “practice more gratitude”. He hated that shit. Usually. But… fuck. Maybe he was happy, ok? Sue him! Jean Vicquemare was happy. Call the goddamn press. And so fucking what if he was happy often these days. Work was still shit- crime was high as fuck, per usual, there was never enough time to make an actual fucking difference, pay was better but still shit for the almost 80 hours a week they pulled on the regular. The Pale is still eating the fucking world- but…
Harry caught his eye, giving him a small, knowing smile. He insisted that his Voices couldn’t read minds fully- but Vic sometimes doubted that. Jean rolled his eyes and went back to his breakfast, but he was smiling ever so slightly. Fucking sue him. Maybe it’s better now than he ever thought it’d be.